


Run My Reputation

by mardia



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Politics, Season/Series 03, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate version of Series Three where Nicola Murray has better luck, a mad Scot in the role of Professor Henry Higgins, and no awful husband weighing her down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The first phone call Nicola fields on her first day as Minister of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship--and Christ, what a mouthful _that_ is--is from her mother-in-law.

“Audrey, be fair, I left seven bloody messages for you, I can’t understand why you always leave your mobile off--” Nicola listens to Audrey, silently counting off to five in her head, then to ten when that doesn’t work and Audrey is still nagging away.

When she’s finally able to speak again, Nicola says, quickly, “No, no, I don’t think the school thing is going to be a problem. I know what Arthur thinks, but they’ll have vetted me at Number 10--no, Audrey, I haven’t talked to the PM yet. No, I know, but look, nobody’s soiled themselves or shot me when I entered the building, so I think we’re covered.”

Her weak joke doesn’t go over well, because they never do, so finally Nicola says her goodbyes with a tired, sarcastic, “Well, I’ll just see you and the kids when I get home,” carefully not saying what she’s really thinking, which is _thanks for the congratulations, you sour old bitch._

That, unfortunately, turns out to be the high point of her morning, starting with the mediocre staff and the revelation that her new job entails being nothing more than a woman with a computer and some pens.

Jesus, it’s already becoming incredibly clear why she got roped in--who would want to say yes to this job, if they had the chance for something better?

And then Malcolm Tucker walks in, and Nicola’s day gets immeasurably worse. First it’s the bloody chair, then it turns out nobody’s even vetted her yet, for fuck’s sake--

“Uh, four kids, actually.”

“Four!” Malcolm says, rocking back on his heels like it’s unheard of, a woman with four children. Nicola wonders if he’s never heard of the old rhyme, the old woman in a shoe, and has to chew on the inside of her cheek so as not to let out a nervous giggle.

They skate past Katie without too much trouble, but then it’s Ella’s school on the table, and everything goes to hell really very quickly. She’s starting to think that’s a theme with Tucker, honestly.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Nicola says, trying to be as firm as she can. “My family’s off-limits, all right? This job is never going to touch my kids, Malcolm, and you might as well understand that now.”

Malcolm takes that about as well as she expected him to, and Nicola’s treated to what must be Malcolm Tucker in full form, all four-lettered words and wild gestures, making it brutally clear that _everything_ about her is now up for public debate, and thus subject to his approval.

And at last Nicola has to say something. “That’s all well and good, and maybe you’re right about me, but not my kids, okay? That’s the end of it, I don’t care how many times you come into my office to shout and swear and, and insult my wardrobe, my daughter isn’t going to that fucking _useless_ comprehensive!”

Her voice is a shout by the end, and Nicola’s hands are balled in fists on the top of the desk, her desk now.

Malcolm’s watching her, his pale eyes intent--good God, but those things must do half the work for him, they’re that intense and unnerving--and finally he says softly, “So is this the single-mum act, then? Mama elephant protecting the little ones?”

Nicola straightens her shoulders. “Yes,” she says, as firmly as she knows how.

Malcolm shrugs with one shoulder, making a little face, eyes hooded. “It’s not bad. Don’t look so nervous the next time, it’ll be more believable then.”

He walks out, and Nicola stares in disbelief. Did--is it possible that she might have somehow won that argument? Against Malcolm Tucker, of all people?

She quickly calls the staff, her staff, in for a quick consultation, and the consensus is that yes, she did somehow win that argument--and they’re even more baffled by it than she is.

“Sorry, it’s just Malcolm never leaves you in doubt when he’s won the argument,” Ollie-not-Oliver explains. “So by process of elimination if nothing else--”

“He must have decided it’s not worth the fuss, not if this is the only skeleton in your closet,” Glenn explains. “It _is_ the only skeleton in your closet, yes, Minister?”

Nicola refrains from rolling her eyes, but only just. “Well, it _is_ just me and my kids, so.” She doesn’t realize how it’ll sound until it leaves her lips, and then she could kick herself.

“Right,” Glenn says, looking horribly awkward. “Right, yes, I’d, um. Heard about that.”

Nicola quickly pastes a smile on her face. “Well, seeing as how I apparently haven’t even been vetted yet, I’m surprised you heard that I’m a widow. Look, um, just give me a minute in my office, and then we can, er, coordinate our efforts for the rest of the day, yes?”

They all nod, looking relieved to get the out--although not as relieved as Nicola is to give it.

She shuts the door behind all of them, sits down in the chair she won’t be keeping--crap, she’ll have to tell Terri about that, make sure that it’s binned--and takes what probably will be her last long, easy breath of the day.

Nicola ends up being proven right on that, in ways she couldn’t ever have imagined, and no matter what Malcolm says, she _knows_ that “I Am Bent” disaster was his way of getting revenge on her for winning the battle over Ella’s school. The fucking bastard.

*

It doesn’t take Nicola very long to feel out of her depth at DoSAC. Hell, it doesn’t take even a day. She’s in over her head, and the worst part is that nobody knows it more than her.

All the same, she’s here, and somehow she’ll have to get through it all. Nicola’s had practice at that this past few months, at forging straight through because there’s no other choice left.

She gets into the habit of twisting her engagement ring round her finger and then clenching her left hand into a fist when she gets nervous, so that the stones poke sharply against her skin, calming her down, at least a little. It becomes one of those tics she’s known for, her fiddling with her rings, twisting them round and round her finger. Even the Guardian’s profile of her, scathing as it is, mentions it as a quirk they find disarming.

Nicola tries not to think about it all too much.

*

They’re in Eastbourne, doing the last-minute polishing of her speech in Glenn’s hotel room when the subject comes up. “And, with Julie Price,” Glenn starts, sounding more awkward than usual, “--it might be a good idea, you know, if you tried a bit of bonding with her.”

There is a second, just one second, where Nicola has no idea what Glenn’s talking about. And then she understands, and her stomach sinks, even as she sits up in her seat. “Glenn, what exactly am I supposed to say to the woman? Sorry your husband’s just died in a horrendous accident, but my husband’s dead too, let’s join hands and sing Kumba-fucking-ya?”

Her voice is sharp, and Glenn winces, while Ollie seems to be trying to shrink back into his chair. “No, no,” Glenn says quickly, waving his hands. “Nothing--nothing quite that blunt, obviously, Minister, I just, well--” He glances over at Ollie, and Ollie jumps in.

“None of us mean to be insensitive,” Ollie says. Nicola gives him a disbelieving glance, but Ollie doesn’t even have the good taste to be aware of how ridiculous that sounds coming from his mouth. “But it is--I mean, it is part of the story already, isn’t it? You’re going to be mentioning her in your speech, standing there, a widow yourself--it would be kind of odd if you didn’t bring it up at least once, honestly.”

“Right,” Nicola says, even though privately she has no intentions of doing it. “Well, I’m off to ring Terri, see if she can get us any traction on Mannion’s second holiday. God knows we won’t be able to rely on Duggan, village idiot that he is...”

Eventually Julie Price appears, and Nicola moves in to shake her hand, tell her how sorry she is for her loss, all the platitudes people have thrown Nicola’s own way after James’ death.

It should be enough, except that Ollie and Glenn are both looking at her, hopeful and expectant in equal measure, and so Nicola swallows and forces a smile on her face that she hopes looks sympathetic and respectful in equal measure, and not as ghastly as it feels to her.

“And, Julie--I don’t mean to presume, but I hope you know that I do understand what you’re going through. At least, I think I understand it a little better than others would.”

Thank fucking Christ, she doesn’t have to say much else, as Julie immediately assumes a expression of sympathy that looks genuine, far more genuine than Nicola feels right now. “Oh, I know, I heard about your husband too, what a shame. Drunk driver, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Nicola says. “Yes, it was.”

“God, that’s awful. I hope the bastard’s rotting in prison.”

“The other driver died in the wreck as well,” Nicola says. “Well, I just mean to say that I do understand what you’re going through, and I--I admire it, so much. You fighting for your husband’s memory this way, I really just think it’s wonderful.”

Julie smiles and takes her hand, shaking it vigorously, and over Julie’s shoulder, Glenn looks approving, and Ollie has the nerve to actually give her a thumbs-up sign.

It’s all excruciating and embarrassing, but the hell of it is that it _works_ , and in ways Nicola never could’ve predicted, particularly when Malcolm, damn him, actually has the nerve to try and steal Julie out from under their noses. But Julie, thanks to Nicola’s little bonding-widows moment, says thanks but no thanks, that she couldn’t possibly do that to Nicola on such short notice.

Of course, Malcolm goes into a towering rage, and then poor Glenn decides to stick up to him, and--well. At least the swelling on Glenn’s face should go down within a few days, hopefully.

*

It doesn’t take Nicola long at all to become disenchanted with her job. She hadn’t thought of herself as a wide-eyed innocent, hardly that, but--she’d just thought this job would be more. Or that she’d be more, doing it.

She’s up late one night, at home, pouring over some figures and trying to find a way to make any of her half-baked policies go, when Katie comes into the kitchen, yawning, as she looks for a snack. “Mum? What are you doing up so late?”

Nicola blinks up at her eldest child. “Oh, it’s--just going over some work, darling. Why are you up?”

“Came downstairs for some water,” Katie says, still eyeing her. “Mum, it’s nearly two in the morning.”

“No, no, it can’t be--” Nicola twists in her chair to glance at the nearest clock and groans. “Oh, God, it is. Shit. Sorry,” she adds quickly as Katie’s eyebrows go up, “--sorry, ignore me, just--get your water and go to bed, at least one of us shouldn’t be sleep-deprived in the morning.”

Katie fills up a glass at the sink, but doesn’t head back upstairs, instead she comes to stand by Nicola’s shoulder, peering at the paperwork Nicola has spread out over the kitchen table. “What’s all this, then?” she asks, sounding a little curious.

“Work,” Nicola says grimly. “It’s--I’m trying to look at some figures, see if we can make a policy of mine work out, but so far the figures are plotting against me.”

“You sound like me in maths,” Katie says, and Nicola laughs.

“I probably do, don’t I,” she agrees, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Ugh, I’m not even sure why I’m doing this, any new policy I come up with will be shot down from upstairs anyway--oh, ignore me,” Nicola adds, belatedly, because Katie’s not her coworker or her spouse, she doesn’t need to hear Nicola’s whining.

Except that when Nicola looks over at her, Katie hasn’t got that sarcastic sneer to her face Nicola’s far too used to seeing, instead she looks...open, almost. “No, I think you should keep on,” Katie encourages her, awkwardly. “I mean, you’re the minister, right? You can make them listen to you, if you want them to listen.”

“You have a lot of faith in my abilities,” Nicola says, wry.

Katie just shrugs, like this should go without saying. “Sure. You’re the toughest person I know.”

Nicola stares at her, wide-eyed, and Katie flushes. “What?” she asks, defensive. “Don’t get all weird about it, just--you know. When Dad died--” she licks her lips in a nervous gesture, “--I remember during that first month or so, I never saw you cry, not even once. Not even at the funeral.”

“No,” Nicola says, quiet. “No, I didn’t. I thought...” She clears her throat, and says the lie she needs to say. “Well, you know. You kids had enough to deal with, without seeing your mum losing it.”

“Yeah,” Katie says. “And you deal with all of us, even though I know Granddad and Nana drive you bonkers, don’t pretend otherwise.” She grins at Nicola, and Nicola chuckles, even though she really should be protesting otherwise. “So--hang in there, or whatever. Keep calm and carry on, like the poster says.”

Nicola smiles. “Thanks. Thanks, sweetheart.” She gets up to give Katie a hug, and wonder of wonders, Katie actually tolerates it for two seconds before squirming free.

“Whatever,” she says, trying to act all aloof again. “Just don’t go self-harming or whatever, otherwise we really will be stuck with our grandparents all the time, and if that happens, I’m never forgiving you, yeah? Never.”

“Can’t have that now, can we,” Nicola says, smiling, and Katie smiles back, a little, before heading back upstairs.

Nicola turns back to her work, and by the time morning comes around, she’s sleep deprived and looking like hell, but she’s got a working policy outlined and in her hands, and that’s enough to be starting with.

All the same, victories like that one are still few and far between, particularly so far as the press are concerned, and Nicola’s job, damn it all to hell, is about dealing with the press, and she can never seem to manage with them. She’s starting to think that whole blasted “I Am Bent” debacle was just a harbinger for what was to come. Like the fucking Radio 5 debate disaster and after that mess, Nicola would just be happy if she never had to catch sight of any journalists ever again. Unfortunately, Malcolm doesn’t seem to think that’ll ever be possible, as his frequent bollockings on that subject indicate.

*

“Is your department cursed or something?” Malcolm demands, and Nicola sighs. She’d be less aggravated about this particular rant of his if he hadn’t made her hoof over to Number 10 just to make her hear it in his office, with the door not even fucking closed all the way, Christ.

“Malcolm, if you’d please--”

“No, no, tell me! What, was there some wart-covered, sour, straw-haired cunt of a witch who decreed that anybody working in DoSAC would promptly lose even the tiny amount of brain cells they were born with? You can tell me, Nicola, I’ll have a fucking army of priests out here in a jiffy, we can put holy water in all the sprinklers round the building, have the biggest exorcism this side of the bloody Atlantic!”

“For God’s sake, Malcolm--” Nicola starts, although why she’s even bothering to try and say anything, she’s not sure why. It’s not like Malcolm’s not on a roll right now, those veins in his temples are pulsing at a steady clip.

“--I mean, God knows Hugh Abbott had the brains of a horse and the face to match, idiot bastard that he was, and now I’ve got _you_ \--”

Nicola braces herself, but that’s the thing about Malcolm--when you expect him to zig, he fucking well goes and zags, the mad bastard.

“--and you’ve got a shot at _maybe_ being the first half-decent minister we’ve had in DoSAC for ages, and _still_ you can’t keep from fucking bungling it half the fucking time!” Malcolm glares at her, so intensely that it takes a second for Nicola to realize that in the middle of all that yelling, there was an actual compliment somewhere in there.

“You,” Nicola says, feeling almost winded, “--you think I’m a decent minister?”

“Half-decent,” Malcolm corrects her, still irate. “Not even that usually, most days you’re like a badly pulled pint, all foam and no beer.”

Blinking, Nicola gets up from her seat. “Look, if you--” she nearly chokes on the words, they sound so unbelievable, but pushes them out, “--if you honestly think that I, that I show promise at this job or whatever--”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, darling,” Malcolm says with a sneer, but Nicola’s past caring.

“--then _help_ me, all right? Help me. I’m, I’m shit at dealing with the press, we both know that, and we both know I need to get better. So help me.”

Malcolm’s watching her, and it’s one of the few times--the very few times--that she can’t read his face at all. So Nicola takes a breath, and says, as sincerely as she knows how, “Help me, Malcolm.”

“I can’t hold your hand for everything, you know,” Malcolm points out finally. “Believe it or not, I’ve got much bigger things on my plate than your fucking department. Though, God knows, you do need someone holding your hand, and from what I can tell, a fucking teddy bear would be an improvement over the staff you’ve got--”

Nicola could try and defend her staff, but he’s got a point. And also, that’s Malcolm’s thinking face now, she can tell--even if she’s more than a little disturbed by the idea that she can tell what Malcolm’s various faces mean.

Christ, she’s been in this job too long.

“All right. I’m not making any promises, but I might be able to throw you a bone, get you an aide that actually knows what he’s about. Name’s Jamie MacDonald, and if you think I’m bad, wait until you get a load of him, sweetheart.”

Nicola is immediately wary. “What do you mean by that?”

Malcolm’s smile is perhaps the most unsettling thing she’s seen from him today. “You’ll find out soon enough, my girl. Jamie’s...something that can’t be described, really, he’s got to be _experienced_.”

Nicola leaves that dire warning aside and says as she stands, crisply, “Don’t call me your girl. And--thank you. If you say this man can help me with the press, then thank you.”

Malcolm cocks an eyebrow at her, but says simply, “Don’t thank me yet. You’re nowhere near close to being out of the woods.”

Nicola laughs at this as she heads towards the door, and Malcolm’s eyebrow shoots up even further. “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. But,” Nicola shrugs, “--thanks anyway.”

Nicola thinks she hears him mutter, “You’re welcome, then,” as she leaves, but it’s soft enough that she’s not sure.


	2. Chapter Two

If Nicola didn’t already have a sneaking suspicion that Jamie MacDonald was categorically insane, the reactions of her staff to the news would’ve tipped her off.

“Oh God,” Ollie says faintly. “I’m going to have to come to work every week with a whip and chair in hand, aren’t I, just to try and keep him from eating the flesh off my bones.”

“He’s a lunatic,” Glenn tells her, flatly. “He’s a _total_ lunatic--I swear to you, Nicola, part of his job was to make Malcolm Tucker look saner by comparison, and let me tell you, he managed it!”

Terri’s reaction is perhaps the most composed, as she only raises her eyebrows and says, “Well. This should be interesting.”

“Oh, really?” Nicola asks.

“Yes,” Terri says as she walks to her desk. “Much in the same way I’m sure people found the sack of Rome to be interesting.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nicola mutters to herself, already wondering what she’s let Malcolm drag her into.

The answer, she quickly finds, is complete and utter chaos, in the form of a totally mad Scotsman with perhaps the filthiest mouth she’s ever seen.

“Right,” Jamie MacDonald says on his first day, practically rubbing his hands together, “I know historically this department’s been as full of shit as the Augean stables, but just consider me the equivalent of Niagara Falls, okay? I’m going to fucking _flood_ this place until it’s squeaky clean and smelling like a field of fucking wildflowers, right?”

“Er, right,” Nicola says, when it becomes clear that someone has to say something, and it’s going to have to be her. “Hello, I’m Nicola Murray--”

“Hello,” Jamie says, shaking her hand as he eyes her up and down. “We’ll have to do something about that hair, eventually, but baby steps for now.”

Nicola blinks, and then says, “And suddenly Malcolm’s influence becomes so very clear.”

Jamie gives her a sharp smile, even as he says, “Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart, I’m nowhere near as nice as he is.”

All in all, Nicola thinks that first meeting goes rather well, especially since he quickly turns his attention to terrorizing her staff instead of her. Unfortunately, Jamie’s job isn’t to terrorize her staff--although he clearly views it as a perk--it’s to get her into shape so that she doesn’t bungle things in front of the press.

And God, is it ever torture. Never did Nicola think she’d miss the days when her staff was simply incompetent at their jobs, but with Jamie constantly shouting at her when they’re practicing speeches or interviews, benign neglect sounds wonderful.

“How, how, _how_ are you so utterly shit at this?” Jamie asks, rubbing at his face with his hands during another late-night session, after Nicola’s once again stumbled over her response to a question.

Nicola snaps, her cheeks hot from frustration and embarrassment, “Well, normally in interviews I don’t have a mad Scot barking at me every fucking second.”

Glenn, who’s the referee for this particular session, tries to intervene, saying, “Look, why don’t we just take a breather, get some Fanta from the machine--”

“No fucking Fanta,” Jamie snarls at him, getting up as he paces. “Christ alive, nobody’s leaving this room until we make some kind of progress, yeah? Some miniscule--I mean, Jesus, Nicola, you must have some kind of plan when you go up there in front of a microphone. I mean, what do you even do normally? Surely you must have some kind of plan, some coping technique, and please, _please_ tell me your plan doesn’t consist of crossing your fucking fingers and toes and praying that this time you won't be hemorrhaging from your mouth.”

Jamie’s actually looking at her for an answer, and so Nicola gives him one. “My rings,” she says, grim. In the corner, Nicola sees Glenn look up for a second, before immediately burying himself in his notepad, although she knows his notes mostly are doodles by this point. “My wedding and engagement rings, sometimes I like to fiddle with them, you know, twist them around. And--”

Jamie gestures at her sharply. “And? Come on, spill it.”

She’d signed on for this, so with a heavy sigh, Nicola says, “The diamonds on my engagement ring, I’ll sometimes turn it around, make my hand into a fist, so the stones’ll dig into my palm. Helps me focus on something other than my nerves.”

Jamie stares at her for a long moment, long enough that Nicola wants to squirm under his gaze, but manages to refrain. Finally he says, “I can work with that.”

“You can?” Nicola asks, dubious, as Jamie comes round and starts rummaging in her desk. “Wait, wait, what are you--”

“Hah!” Jamie says in triumph, standing up straight as he reveals--a paper clip? “This is going to be your new best friend, sweetheart. At least for the big speeches, anyway.”

Nicola stares at the paper clip in disbelief. “What, am I supposed to stab myself in the hand with that now?”

Jamie scoffs. “No, for Christ’s sake--look, you keep it in one hand, yeah? And when you’re up there, making speeches, you focus all that nervous energy into unwrapping it. In the one hand only, mind, we don’t need the cameras catching sight of it and wondering if you’ve got OCD or some freaky paper clip fetish.”

He presses the paper clip into her palm. “Here. We’re going to run through this mock interview again, right, but this time I want you to hold your hand under the table, fiddle with the clip, let out some of that nervous energy you’ve got.”

Nicola takes a deep breath, and forces herself to remember two things: one, this man is actually in her employ, and two, she did in fact sign up for this.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s start with the first question then.”

Unbelievably, that does the trick. By the end of the run-through, Nicola’s paper clip is straight as a pin, she’s managed to keep her head and respond to every pretend question in a collected manner, and both Glenn and Jamie are looking deeply relieved. “Thank fucking Christ,” Jamie says, dramatically collapsing back in his chair. “At last, the start of some fucking progress. We might actually get you fit to be seen in public at some point.”

“Oh happy day,” Nicola says dryly, and Glenn smiles at her over his notepad.

*

Jamie schedules an appearance in Nicola’s constituency, nothing hugely significant or anything, but there’s a stop at a local daycare, some regional press. “Nice easy appearance, help you get your feet wet. Not even wet, just pleasantly damp, you know?” Jamie tells her at the start of the day. “No way can you fuck this up, not even you.”

And to her faint surprise, Nicola doesn’t. With everything that’s happened since her appointment to DoSAC, it’s a relief, remembering there are parts of being a politician she is actually competent at. She likes talking to people, to her constituents, knows how to put on an interested face and actually pay attention to what they’re telling her.

It’s at the daycare where Nicola runs into the crying baby, and--no matter what Jamie says later--the moment isn’t planned, Nicola’s not conniving enough that she could manufacture a crying baby just to create some viral moment on the Internet or whatever. The baby’s crying in front of her, and the caregiver is looking a little fussed herself, searching with one hand through her diaper bag while she balances the sobbing baby on her hip.

“Do you want some help?” Nicola offers when she reaches her, smiling kindly at the harassed woman. “Seriously, I can hold him for a minute while you grab...whatever it is that needs grabbing.”

“Oh, God, would you?” the woman says, looking pathetically grateful. “I’m sorry, he’s been absolutely miserable all morning--here, Toby, go with the nice politician lady while I find your blinking pacifier--”

The baby, Toby, is handed off to Nicola--and Nicola has always been decent enough with babies, she’s got four kids at home, and James always liked to shirk his bit whenever one of the kids was teething or colicky, but even she can’t explain why the second Toby’s handed off to her, he stops crying as if a switch has been flipped.

The woman pauses, midway through her search, to gape in shock, while a ripple of laughter travels through the crowd. “How on earth did you manage that?” she asks, awed. “He hates strangers.”

“I have no idea,” Nicola murmurs, gently bouncing Toby up and down while he looks around solemnly, as if he’s not sure of this latest turn of events, but he’s willing to tolerate it for now. “Hello there, Toby, feeling any better?”

Toby buries his face in her shoulder, and Nicola’s feeling rather smug, when all of a sudden, Toby’s little chest sort of twitches and he burps and there’s--

“Oh God,” the woman groans, looking mortified, “Secretary, I’m so sorry, but he’s, he’s--”

“He’s thrown up on me,” Nicola says, peering down at her ruined jacket, and then at Toby’s face--he’s now grinning at her toothlessly, the little stinker, with bits of white gunk all around his mouth. “Ollie, can I have your handkerchief?”

Ollie, who’s standing right by her side, looks aghast, but Nicola eyes him, and he hands it over without any verbal complaints, which is all she wants. Instead of using it on her jacket--it’ll need to be dry-cleaned at the very least, Nicola knows, and rubbing the stain in won’t help matters--Nicola wipes up Toby’s mouth, murmuring, “You’re lucky you’re so adorable, you know.”

Toby blinks up at her, and Nicola can’t help but smile at him, vomit on her jacket and all. Toby’s response is to grab at her nose, so Nicola lets him, trying her best to stifle her laughter--God, wouldn’t it figure that this would happen, on what was supposed to be such an easy appearance.

“I can take him now, if you want,” the woman says, holding up the pacifier she’s now located. “God, I’m so sorry about your jacket.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I promise you,” Nicola promises, handing Toby back over. “A little bit of scrubbing, the stain’ll be out in no time.” She bops Toby lightly on the nose with her finger, and then wriggles out of her jacket now that her hands are free, folding it up and handing it to Ollie, along with his soiled handkerchief.

“Really, you’re--you’re handing this to me?” Ollie grumbles, and Nicola rolls her eyes at him, but she’s already moving on to the next person in line.

The cameras have been rolling throughout, and Nicola’s already mentally preparing herself for the crappy photographs and joke headlines, but she’s here, so she might as well try and make the best of it from now on.

But if Nicola was looking for a good omen, Toby turns out to be it, because the rest of the visit goes like a dream, Nicola able to talk up the party’s agenda regarding families and early education programs without stuttering or spilling something or, wonder of wonders, causing a PR debacle.

In the back of the room, Jamie looks pleased as punch, and it’s helping Nicola to breathe a little easier, even if the questions are delving into the personal realm a little more than she could wish.

“Are you used to cleaning up sick then, Minister?” one journalist asks, and a joker in the back calls out, “Of course she is, she’s in government, isn’t she?”

Nicola just smiles and says, “Well, I’ve got kids at home, so yes, I’ve seen my fair share of vomit in my day.”

“So as a single mother, Minister, do you identify with the struggles of many working single mums today?”

“Well, I think any mother should be able to empathize with those sort of struggles,” Nicola says carefully. “But yes, I do try to use my own life experiences as a way to offer perspective on the issues facing people in Great Britain today.”

“How many children do you have, Mrs. Murray?”

“Four,” Nicola says promptly. “Two girls, two boys.”

“And their ages?”

Nicola blinks, but gamely replies, “Sixteen, eleven, nine, and five.”

Thankfully, the questions move on from there, and at the end, Nicola manages to wave goodbye at everyone, pausing to waggle her fingers at Toby, and bless him, he gives her a toothless grin in reply, so Nicola leaves feeling pretty damned pleased with the day’s work, stained jacket and all.

To her surprise, Jamie ends up being just thrilled with her performance today. “That bit with the baby was fucking genius,” he says in total sincerity once they’re all packed into the car. “I could kiss you right now, I swear before God I could.”

Nicola eyes him. “Well, please don’t.”

“Don’t worry, love, you’re not my type, but all the same--Jesus! Did you get that baby to throw up on you on cue or something? We couldn’t have planned that better if we tried! And the bit with the jacket, the way you brushed it off and didn’t even cringe, perfect.”

Nicola has to admit, she’s feeling a bit pleased with herself. “It did go rather well, didn’t it?”

“We’re running with this,” Jamie tells her, wagging a finger in her face for emphasis. “Now that I’ve finally got a line to go with here, we are fucking running for it, you understand?”

“Er, okay then,” Nicola says, eyeing Glenn and Ollie to see if either one of them have any idea what Jamie’s talking about. Glenn just shrugs, and Ollie says, gesturing to Nicola’s stained jacket, “Can, look, can I please stop holding this now?”

*

It’s not until the next afternoon, when they’re all in the office wrapping things up for the day, that Nicola has an idea of what Jamie’s new line is, and she doesn’t like it one bit.

“So here’s what we’re going to schedule next, yeah? We’re gonna do a little sit-down interview with the Times, have another profile of you come out, get really personal with it, okay?” Jamie explains to them all, pacing up and down the floor of her office.

Nicola, from behind her desk, clears her throat. “Erm, sorry Jamie, but what do you mean by personal?”

“I mean your fucking personal life,” Jamie shoots back. “We’ll talk about the kids, your struggles as a single mum, what it’s been like for you since your husband’s death--”

Both Ollie and Terri’s gazes are ping-ponging between Jamie and Nicola, and Glenn, bless him, Glenn really tries, saying, "Look here, Jamie, we've always had a policy of, of not getting into Nicola's personal life, I don't see why that should change now."

"Because it looks good on camera," Jamie shoots back, cutting. “She’s a bungling mess most of the time, but you get her talking about her family, about her kids, and she turns natural, doesn’t she? She becomes _likable_ , not a yummy mummy, but the nice aunt who buys you ugly jumpers every year at Christmas.” 

“We’re not doing it,” Nicola says quietly, and everyone turns towards her. “We’re not going with this line. I’m sorry, Jamie, but it’s totally unacceptable.”

In the back of the office, Ollie looks to be doing his level best to try and disappear into a corner, and Terri and Glenn don’t look much better. Nicola can’t disappear into a corner, though, and what’s more, she doesn’t want to.

“Oh, so you think you can just make that call, then, eh?” Jamie asks at last, sounding almost calm. Dangerously calm.

“Seeing as it’s my personal life, yeah, I think I can,” Nicola snipes back, not bothering to hide her irritation. “Consider this official notice of your advice being regretfully declined then, shall we?”

The ensuing argument is so loud, so vicious, and filled with so many swear words that Nicola can see spectators gathering outside the office out of the corner of her eye, and Nicola simply could not give less of a fuck. Arguing with Jamie is what standing outside during a hurricane must feel like, just being... _buffeted_ with the sound and fury of it all, and trying to do your best not to fall over and get swept away.

Nicola doesn’t have the option of falling down, so she just shouts back as best as she can, until she finally snaps and says, “Fuck _off_ , Jamie, and you know what, if this plan has Malcolm’s backing, then he can just fuck right off too.”

She storms out of the office, Jamie shouting after her, “Oi, and where do you think you’re fucking going!”

“For a fucking walk!” Nicola shouts back over her shoulder, and that’s what she does, righteous anger fueling her feet until she’s in--some remote corner of the building, seething as she paces to and fro.

She doesn’t even have her mobile, she doesn’t have files or papers or anything, it’s just her and her anger and her--

Terri finds her, eventually, sitting on a bench, scowling down at her feet--the next time she storms out of her office, she wants to do it in more impressive shoes, instead of the trainers she usually wears in the office when there aren’t cameras or visitors about.

“Hi, Nicola,” Terri says, in the tone you use to talk someone down off the ledge. “How are you feeling, then?”

“Fine,” Nicola says, folding her arms. “Well, no, I’m still livid, but fine.”

“Good, because Malcolm’s just called, and he wants to see you over at Number 10.”

Nicola stares at Terri in dismay. “What, now?”

“Yeah,” Terri says, and Nicola groans, covering her face with her hand. When she lifts her face back up, Terri is watching her with more outward sympathy than Nicola has ever seen from her before, and Nicola hates it. "Look, I can tell Malcolm that I missed you," she offers. "I can say you've already left for the day or...or something."

It’s a kindness, and Nicola only takes a moment before shaking his head. “No, no. I’m going to get the bollocking no matter what, no point in putting it off. Fuck. _Fuck_.” She gets up off the bench, asking, “Is Jamie gone, at least?”

“Yes, left in a cloud of fire and brimstone, the way he always does,” Terri reassures her as they head off, back to the office, and for Nicola at least, back to another bollocking.

*

“You know what I was thinking of, just now?” Malcolm asks her in his office, eying her in obvious disdain. “You. You standing right here, just a few weeks ago, practically going down on your knees and begging me for help, you remember that, Nicola? Well? Do you?”

Nicola keeps her shoulders square, but with an effort. “Yes but look, Malcolm--”

“And what do I do? I _get_ you that help, don’t I? I get you an aide who is miles and miles better than any of the other idiots you’ve got working for you, and you’re too fucking much of a twat to fucking see--”

“I do see,” Nicola snaps back at him. “I see exactly what Jamie’s doing, I know he’s supposed to be helping, I just don’t--I don’t see why we have to throw my kids and my fucking dead husband into everything I do here!”

“Well, boo-fucking-hoo sweetheart, you use what you’ve got, and right now what you’ve got is four kids and a fucking dead husband, so you know what? We are gonna use them! We’re going to use that sob story of yours until it’s a fucking dried-out _husk_ , yeah?”

“Okay,” Nicola says, so sick of the whole fucking mess that she could throw up all over Malcolm’s carpet. “Okay, fine, you do whatever the fuck you like then, you and Jamie both, God knows I clearly can’t stop either one of you.”

Too furious to say anything else, Nicola turns towards the door, and Malcolm shouts, “Oi! What are you--get back in here, you lunatic! For Christ’s sake, you don’t storm out on me, yeah? I storm out on everyone else!”

Nicola pauses, door already open, and says, voice tart, “Oh, really? Then just what am I doing right now?”

“Acting like a fucking nutter is what,” Malcolm mutters, circling his desk to come over and shut the door, right before leading her with a surprisingly gentle hand to the chair facing his desk. “Look, just fucking sit down already and we’ll sort this out, for fuck’s sake.”

Nicola doesn’t actually want to sit down, but she knows she has very few options left at this point, so she sits opposite Malcolm’s desk, barely waiting until he’s sat down in his own chair to say, “Malcolm, look, you’re not going to sweet-talk me into anything--”

“I’m going to make you see reason, is what,” Malcolm tells her, rapping on the desk with his knuckles for emphasis. But, to Nicola’s surprise, instead of engaging in a long, rambling, abusive rant, Malcolm just sits back in his chair and looks at her for a long, long moment before finally saying, “This isn’t just because you want to keep your personal life to yourself, is it.”

“Of course it is,” Nicola tries, but Malcolm’s eyes are digging a hole in her skull.

“No it isn’t. It could be, but it isn’t, is it? There’s something there you don’t want to talk about, and believe me, I’m the one you want to be telling it to.”

Nicola sighs, rubbing at her temples. “It’s not--Malcolm, it’s not some big lurking scandal, all right? It’s just...it’s a private matter, and for the sake of my own feelings, I’d rather we not--”

“You’re a cabinet minister, you’re not allowed to have feelings, it’s in the fucking Magna Carta,” Malcolm retorts, relentless. “Out with it, already.”

Fuck.

Nicola bites at her lip, and then says, “Okay, so--everyone knows my husband, James, that he died about a year ago, right? Well, what people don’t know is that when he died, he was having an affair with his secretary, and the two of us were like, like hostile housemates who have to make nice for the sake of the kids. Christ, Malcolm, I’d made a phone call to a divorce lawyer just a week before James got into that car accident.” Given how long she’s spent not talking about this, the words are just flowing out of Nicola now, God.

“We hated each other by the end,” Nicola tells Malcolm, “--and now he’s dead, and everyone likes to think of me as some...some devoted, grieving spouse and it’s just not true. I mean, I am sorry he’s dead, he was the father of my children for Christ’s sake, but I don’t miss him, I’m not devoted to his memory, and it feels pretty fucking grotesque trying to pretend otherwise to the press. That’s it.”

Her confession done, Nicola collapses back in her seat, feeling both a little sick to her stomach and...and oddly relieved, all at the same time.

After what feels like a frightfully long pause, Malcolm asks, “The secretary going to talk?”

“No, I believe she went off to America this past year. And the lawyer’s not going to say anything, obviously.” Nicola swallows, and then says what needs to be said. “I hated my husband, Malcolm, that’s the truth of it. I hated him when he was alive, and even at the fucking funeral when his parents were crying and my kids were barely holding it together, I still couldn’t--” She stops, chewing at her lip, before finally clearing her throat. “Well. Anyway. That’s why I don’t like talking about him much.”

The silence stretches, long enough that Nicola thinks about slinking out with the tattered remains of her dignity, but then Malcolm leans in over his desk and says to her, heavily, “You...are never, _ever_ to repeat that to anyone outside this office ever again, do you understand me? Never.”

Nicola lifts her chin. “I’m not a total idiot, Malcolm, no matter what you and your staff seem to think. Of course I won’t say anything. I just--you asked, all right? You asked and I answered you. So. There’s my dirty little secret.”

Malcolm, to Nicola’s surprise, scoffs. “Please. That’s not a dirty secret, darling. You should see the shit I keep locked away in my vaults for half the bastards in Parliament. Your dirt’s as mild as a newborn lamb.”

Nicola snorts before she can stop herself. “Probably,” she concedes. “But you do get it, don’t you? Why I’d just...prefer to leave my private life out of things?”

Instead of reassuring her, Malcolm asks her, “Why do you still keep the rings on then, if you loathed him so much?”

Nicola shrugs wearily. “I took them off once, just for a week, and it freaked my kids out, they couldn’t stop staring at my hand, so. It just seemed like less trouble to keep them on.” She hesitates, but they are on the topic, and it seems unfair for her to be the only one revealing things, so she asks, “What about you? Your ring, you still have it on, I see.”

Thank God, Malcolm doesn’t look offended by the question. “What, this?” he says, lifting his left hand, his wedding ring catching the light as he moves his hand about. “Habit. And it makes me look more trustworthy, having a ring on. Makes me seem more reliable.”

“Oh,” Nicola says. “Well--that actually makes a kind of twisted sense, I suppose. Especially for you.” Part of her is desperately curious as to what kind of woman would willingly marry Malcolm Tucker in the first place--the other part of her knows she’d be taking her life into her own hands, asking about the now ex-Mrs. Tucker, and Nicola feels she’s risked her neck plenty today.

“Jesus Christ,” Malcolm’s saying now, shaking his head. “All this fuss over something so small--darling, we’ve got to thicken up your skin a little bit. Get you some armor, some Teflon, so you don’t start moaning on and on about petty bullshit like this. So you hated your husband, so what? Half the married women in the world dream of feeding their spouses antifreeze with their morning coffee, they’d probably like you all the more for it.”

Nicola raises an eyebrow at this, and Malcolm rolls his eyes. “All right, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll still position you as the champion of single mums everywhere, right--no, Nicola, don’t start huffing and puffing yet, just hear me out before you start screeching. We position you as that, but we just keep it general. We won’t go into specifics, and if the reporters ask, you just play it up as having a stiff upper lip, not liking to whine.”

That’s...honestly better than she was expecting to hear. “And James?” Nicola presses.

Malcolm shrugs with one shoulder dismissively. “We’ll keep him as a one-line blurb in the opening paragraph.”

Nicola lets out a long sigh of relief. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“You’d better fucking appreciate it,” Malcolm tells her.

*

“So, how bad was he?” Glenn asks the next day, meeting her at the stairs. “Malcolm, I mean, I hope he wasn’t too--”

“No, he was actually--rather decent. For Malcolm, anyway,” Nicola says, and Glenn gives her an incredulous look. She laughs, saying, “I know, right? I thought it would’ve been impossible too. And we’ve...come to an understanding, about my family.”

Forget incredulous, Glenn’s eyebrows are in danger of shooting clear off his forehead. “Really? _Malcolm’s_ made a compromise?”

“Put it this way, it’s something I can live with,” Nicola says with a sigh. “Is Jamie in yet?”

“Oh yes,” Glenn confirms, and Nicola holds back another sigh, but only just. “He’s off terrorizing Ollie though, which usually puts him in a good mood, so I think we’ll be all right.”

Nicola snorts, and as they start walking off, she remarks, “Glenn--aren’t I Jamie’s boss? Shouldn’t he be the one worrying if he’s all right after yesterday’s dust-up?”

Glenn eyes her, and says, “Nicola, let’s be honest with ourselves. The second you hired him, you put the keys to the asylum in the hands of the biggest lunatic around.”

“I really did, didn’t I,” Nicola sighs.

When they get in, Jamie’s hovering over Ollie, shouting at him for something or other, when he catches sight of her. Nicola takes a bracing breath, but Jamie actually is fairly mild for him, clapping his hands together the second he sees her and saying to the department at large, “Okay, kiddies, Mummy and Daddy are off to kiss and make up now, you can stop clinging to your blankies and teddy bears.”

Nicola rolls her eyes, but it’s a better reaction than she was expecting, truthfully. “I’d actually rather forget all about yesterday, if you don’t mind,” she tells him wearily once they’re alone inside her office.

“You going to let me set up that profile with the Times?” Jamie asks her, eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Nicola says, after a momentary pause. “Just--keep the parts about my husband to a bare minimum, okay?”

Jamie actually offers a little salute. “Will do.”

He turns to leave, and Nicola says, impulsively, “Jamie, wait.”

He stops and looks at her, and Nicola asks him, “Why did you take this position with me, if you don’t mind me asking? I know Malcolm asked you to come on, but why’d you say yes?”

Jamie shrugs. “Because I was bored as fuck doing general PR work for celebrities. It’s all starlets burning holes in their septums with white powder and footballers trying to hide their third love child, yeah? Too fucking easy for my taste.”

“And I’m an improvement over general PR work?” Nicola asks.

Jamie’s grin is as sharp as ever. “Ask me again after we get done with this profile feature.”


	3. Chapter Three

If Nicola thought having Jamie around would make Malcolm back off a little bit, it doesn’t. Instead it seems to have the exact opposite effect, so that more often than not, Nicola has two mad Scots shouting at her in her office, rather than just one. “Christ, it’s like getting it in stereo,” Nicola hears Terri grumble at one point, and Nicola can’t blame her.

But somehow--somehow it works. Somehow the toxic, mad, foul-mouthed combination of Malcolm and Jamie together gets Nicola so worked up that she forgets to be rattled and just shouts back instead. And when she’s done shouting, the nerves are gone, like they were never there to begin with.

It’s a bright spot, especially given that the larger news about the government is currently not so bright at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Right,” Jamie says one night, after watching Tom making another ghastly mistake during a foreign trip, and seeing the news presenters gleefully cutting into it like it’s a steak. “I can’t watch any more of this, I’m off for a drink.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nicola says, reaching for her coat. The rest of the staff have long-since gone, but Jamie had kept her behind for some extra coaching; Nicola’s got another debate with Peter Mannion on the radio in a few weeks, and after listening to the tape of the first one, Jamie had sworn on his apparently sainted-grandmother that he’d be fucked sideways with a spiked dildo before letting that sort of debacle happen again.

Except, to her surprise, Jamie pauses at the door and says, “Right, so you coming with or what?”

“Oh, I--okay,” Nicola says, before she has time to think it over, or come to her senses. She’s used to Jamie--well, as much as anyone can get used to Jamie MacDonald--but that’s when he’s sober. God only knows what happens when he gets a few pints in him.

But her kids are off for the weekend with their grandparents--poor things--and the only thing waiting for Nicola at home is a half-empty bottle of red wine and more work to catch up on, so before she can talk herself out of it, Nicola’s grabbed her coat and bundled herself off into the car to go with Jamie to a nearby pub.

It’s actually a fairly entertaining car ride, Jamie seeing fit to regale her with his opinions of everyone in Whitehall, venting away while Nicola watches and tries to hold back her laughter. Somehow, when they aren’t directed at her, Jamie’s tantrums can be really quite amusing. When they get to the bar, Jamie’s knee deep in a detailed fantasy of just how many ways he could dismember John Duggan, and when Nicola gets out of the car, Jamie’s already up in the double-digits.

The place is pretty busy, with the bar filled to bursting with patrons. “Right,” Jamie says over the general noise, “I’m off to get a pint. You want anything?”

“Mojito if they have it,” Nicola says, glancing around at the younger crowd here, and Jamie gives her a disgusted look.

“Of fucking course you drink that shite,” he groans, but heads off to the bar, and Nicola heads out in search of a couple of empty seats.

What she finds is Malcolm Tucker, sitting in a booth, tie gone and suit rumpled. Malcolm's peering back at her like he’s not quite sure what she’s doing standing in front of him, and he’s not sure yet whether to start yelling at her for it or not.

On an impulse, because it’s been what she’s doing on all night, running on impulse, Nicola sits down in the booth across from him. “Hello, Malcolm. Is this seat taken?”

“Apparently so,” Malcolm says, still eyeing her dubiously. To tell the truth, Nicola’s not sure what she’s doing here herself, but she’d feel more ridiculous sitting down only to immediately run off, so she stays put.

“I came here with Jamie,” Nicola explains. “He’s off getting drinks.”

“Ah,” Malcolm says, settling back in his seat. “My word, he really has taken you in under his wing, hasn’t he?”

“That’s one word for it,” Nicola says, wry. “Other days it feels like I’m Terry Waite.”

“He’s done a good job with you, though,” Malcolm tells her, and at Nicola’s shrug of acknowledgment, Malcolm leans in across the tiny table, fixing on her with those pale eyes of his as he says, “You have to see it, the improvements Jamie’s made. We can actually put you in front of a camera or a microphone without counting down the seconds until you fuck up, and _that_ , my girl, is practically a miracle.”

“I’d like to think I had a tiny bit to do with it,” Nicola retorts, but honesty makes her add, “--and yes, I do see it. You were right, he’s a brilliant appointment.”

Malcolm leans back, flashing his sharp grin at her. “Well. Nice to see you’ve got a bit of sense rattling around underneath that hair.”

“My God, all these compliments,” Nicola says, settling back in her own seat. “Careful, Malcolm, I might actually start to get some self-esteem.”

“God forbid,” Malcolm says, in all sincerity, and Nicola has to laugh.

Jamie appears, drinks in hand, eyeing the two of them. “Here’s your foul mint drink,” he tells Nicola, who gratefully takes her mojito. “Hello, Malcolm. You look like death,” Jamie says cheerfully to Malcolm, taking a long pull off his own pint.

“That’s right, I’m the fucking Black Death,” Malcolm replies. “You going to sit down or what?”

Jamie eyes him for a second, and then says to Nicola, “Move over.” Nicola obligingly shifts so that Jamie can sit down next to her in the booth. It abruptly strikes her as funny, her spending time with Malcolm Tucker and Jamie MacDonald of her own free will, and Nicola hides her smile in her mojito.

But it’s a good night, shockingly enough. Malcolm and Jamie have a long history together and it shows, the two of them remarkably in sync, trading stories and acidic quips while Nicola listens and laughs. And it’s...interesting, seeing this different side of Malcolm. Nicola’s grown accustomed to Jamie, has even learned to trust him to a point, but seeing Malcolm like this, rumpled and grinning while Jamie rants about his football club’s latest loss--he almost doesn’t seem scary at all, watching him like this.

But, far too soon, Nicola knows it’s time for her to go home. She heads out, only a little wobbly on her heels, with Jamie and Malcolm seeing her out. Nicola turns to say goodnight, and finds Malcolm saying something to Jamie in a low voice that she can’t quite make out. She’d think nothing of it, except from the twist to Jamie’s mouth, it seems--well, significant.

“I’m headed back in,” Malcolm tells them both. “Night, Nicola. Jamie.”

“Goodnight, Malcolm,” Nicola calls back, and once Malcolm is back inside the pub, she asks Jamie, curious, “What did he say to you just now?”

Her car pulls up right at that moment, and Jamie says, rocking back on his heels, “Nothing, just that you’re a better pick than Cliff Lawton.”

“Cliff Lawton?” Nicola echoes, confused.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, and for the first time since she's met him, Nicola can’t quite read the look on his face. “Anyway, you should come out with us again sometime. Get the nanny to come in for the night, head on over to the pub, you might learn something.”

“Like how to kill my liver,” Nicola jokes, but she’s smiling as she gets into the car and drives off.

 

*

“But you are definitely coming,” Sam presses, and Nicola laughs into the phone as Terri enters her office, files in hand.

“Well, so long as you promise Malcolm won’t be serving me for dinner, then yes, Sam, I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Sam says, sounding satisfied, and Nicola says, as Terri’s watching her with raised eyebrows, “Sam, I have to go, but I’ll call you back later, all right?”

“Bye Nicola,” Sam says as Nicola hangs up, greeting Terri with a smile.

“Are those the files I was looking for?” Nicola asks, hand outstretched, but Terri takes an extra moment before handing them over.

“Yes. Er, Nicola, sorry for eavesdropping, but...are you going out to dinner with Malcolm Tucker?”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Nicola keeps a smile on her face as she says, “Not that it’s any of your business, Terri, but no. I’ll be attending a dinner party that Malcolm’s hosting, that’s all.”

“Ah,” Terri says. “That’s very interesting.”

“What’s interesting about it?” Nicola asks. “Surely Malcolm’s done this before with other ministers--”

“Oh, God no,” Terri says. “At least not any minister from this department. No, Malcolm would’ve been more likely to serve up Hugh Abbott as an entree before feeding him one, poor man.”

“Oh,” Nicola says.

“But I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” Terri adds quickly.

“Right,” Nicola says, already knowing, with a sinking stomach, that soon the news of her attending Malcolm’s small dinner party will be spreading around the department like wildfire.

Still, she gets the nanny to spend the night watching the kids, and heads over on Thursday night to Malcolm’s address, wine bottle in hand. If Nicola’s honest, she’s rather curious to see what kind of place Malcolm Tucker lives in.

Malcolm answers the door, wearing a blue shirt and dark blazer, no tie, and he offers her a grin as he ushers her inside. “Come on in, Minister, you’re just in time, everyone’s arrived.”

“Everyone--” Nicola starts in confusion, and then as she comes inside to Malcolm’s rather nice house, she understands it. Everyone, in this case, means Malcolm, Jamie, and Sam--along with a few reporters that Nicola recognizes.

“Reporters, Malcolm?” Nicola asks through a tight smile, shrugging out of her coat.

Malcolm takes the coat, murmuring, “Don’t worry, they’re all off the record, even you can’t bungle this up.”

“Bungle--” Nicola starts, heatedly, but Malcolm covers it by saying, loudly, “So Nicola, what kind of drink can I get you started on, eh?”

“Whiskey,” Nicola says firmly, and adds under her breath, “--the more of it, the better.”

She can’t figure out why none of them, not Malcolm or Jamie or even Sam wouldn’t have given her the heads-up to expect reporters at this little dinner party, and continues not to get it until Marianne Swift from the _Mail_ approaches her, and she catches Jamie watching from the corner where he’s holed up with Sam, and then Nicola does get it, in one quick rush.

“Oh, the bastards,” she mutters under her breath, and Marianne asks, “Sorry, Minister, what was that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Nicola says quickly, and adds, “And please, call me Nicola--as long as we’re off the record, that is.”

That gets a laugh from Marianne, and she holds up her hand, promising, “Scout’s honor.” Nicola smiles back, and tries not to think of herself as being in a roomful of sharks ready to pounce at the first sight of blood.

It actually works, for the most part--Nicola’s smiled and nodded her way through dinner parties far more deadly dull and obnoxious, in rooms full of people who wouldn’t vote for her party in a million years. This isn’t actually like that, not at all, but so long as Nicola pretends it is, she manages okay.

Even if part of her is wishing she had her paper clip in hand.

Still, she manages, and actually has a bit of success when the other reporter, Alice Flynn from the _Guardian_ , is lamenting having to go to a Tottenham match this weekend. “I promised my nephews I’d take them, but all that time spent watching football--” she shudders. “No thank you.”

“Oh, I don’t know, at least it’s not cricket,” Nicola says to her. “With football, at least the rules are fairly easy to grasp. I just explained the offside rule to my five year-old last week with cutlery.”

Alice laughs. “How on earth did you manage that?” And so, before Nicola knows what’s happened, she’s demonstrating offsides with a bread roll while Malcolm putters about in the kitchen, everyone at the table watching with amusement. “So I told him that if the bread roll is level with the saltshaker when the ball is played, then it’s onside. Of course, Josh went and ate the bread roll, which rather ruined the lesson.” Nicola finishes, and the laughter around the table is gentle and amused. 

“Bravo,” Marianne says. “So you’re a football fan, are you Nicola?”

“I prefer it to rugby,” Nicola says with a shrug. “And my kids love it, so.”

“Hey, hey, rugby is a proper sport,” Jamie protests, and Nicola rolls her eyes.

“Why am I not surprised at you being into bloodsport?” Alice says, laughing.

“Please, rugby’s the sporting equivalent of a relaxing holiday in Spain if you ask me,” Jamie says, flashing that wide shark grin of his. “If I’m looking for bloodshed, I’m going elsewhere.”

“Like politics, perhaps,” Marianne suggests with a grin. “Speaking of, Peter Mannion’s come out with some rather scathing critiques of your department, Nicola.”

Nicola smiles, even as she glances over at Jamie, saying, “And here I thought we’d wait until the food came out to talk shop.”

“Why wait?” Marianne asks, smiling broadly. Nicola just smiles back, and tries not to think about the first time she fell apart in front of this woman outside the Guardian’s offices, or about Jamie and Malcolm here now, watching her every move.

“Well,” Nicola says slowly, tracing the edge of her wine glass with one finger to collect her thoughts, “I’d say that I hear the other side making a lot of criticisms, and yet I never seem to hear them coming up with their own solutions. Real ones, I mean, not the usual rhetoric they resort to.”

“Rhetoric?” Alice presses.

“Well, take their supposed ideas for the budget,” Nicola says with a little laugh. She remembers laughing like this when one of James’ colleagues had done his best to tweak her over her political affiliations. It hadn’t worked to rattle her then, and she’ll be damned if she gets rattled now. “Sure, the numbers could work, if you’re only willing to strip the NHS bare, defund half the social programs in this country, and say goodbye to funding transport for half a decade. Personally, I like traveling on roads that work and having trains that run on time.”

“That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?” Malcolm cuts in, coming in with a giant bowl of salad. “The opposition have all these grand ideas, but when it comes time to put them into practice, they know about as much as a spotty teenager putting on a condom for the first time.”

Everyone’s attention is immediately back on Malcolm, and Nicola tries not to slump with relief. The rest of dinner is like that, Nicola on edge the whole time and trying not to show it, while Malcolm does his level best to charm the entire table--and succeeds at it, damn him, even though he’s surely verbally eviscerated everyone there, with Sam perhaps being the only exception.

It’s impressive to watch, though, Malcolm working everyone over with his sharp smile and expressive face, all that forceful personality brought to bear on them all.

It doesn’t hurt, of course, that the food is really rather good. Nicola limits herself to one glass of wine, because it’s really better not to tempt fate at this stage, particularly when it looks like she might get out of this evening alive and with her dignity somehow intact.

Please, if there is a God, she’ll get out of here tonight with her dignity intact.

Marianne and Alice end up saying their goodbyes soon after dessert, Nicola shaking their hands and smilingly wishing them a good night. Marianne says goodbye to her with a shark’s grin--sadly, Nicola’s far too used to those these days--and says to her, “Do you know, I’ll be very interested to see how you turn out.” She glances over at Jamie and Malcolm and repeats, “Very interested. Goodnight, Nicola.”

“Goodnight,” Nicola says, a little bewildered, and holds her tongue until the door is shut, the cars are pulling out, and there are definitely no journalists left within earshot. Once she’s safe, she turns to Malcolm and Jamie and demands, “What the hell was that?”

“Dinner,” Malcolm says shortly, going off to the kitchen to clean up. “And a pretty fucking successful one at that.”

“You know what I mean,” Nicola calls out after him. “Why on earth wouldn’t you tell me there’d be reporters here tonight? Or was it all one big test, to see if I could hold up under the surprise?”

“Well, what do you know, she realized it was a test,” Jamie says in mock-wonder, sarcastically clapping.

“Fucking hell,” Nicola growls. “You two are just--fucking _twats_.” She storms off to the kitchen, where Malcolm is washing up the dishes while Sam sits on the counter, sipping at her drink.

“Right, you’re a fucking arsehole,” Nicola says, still fuming, and Malcolm just raises an eyebrow at her.

“Your hair’s dyed and the roots are showing,” he replies, and when Nicola stares at him in bafflement, he says, “Sorry, I just thought that we were stating the obvious.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Nicola groans, and turns to Sam. “Sam, would you like to join me in finishing off the rest of Malcolm’s whiskey?”

Sam smiles at her, hopping off the counter. “Absolutely,” she agrees, linking arms with Nicola as they head out of the kitchen. “For what it’s worth, I did think they would’ve told you about the reporters.”

Nicola looks at her. “No you didn’t, you liar,” she accuses, and Sam laughs.

“Okay, fair enough.”

By the time Malcolm emerges from the kitchen, sleeves still rolled up, Nicola’s on her second glass of whiskey, and Jamie’s broken out the cigars. Nicola’s in the midst of preparing hers when Malcolm says, “Take that over by the window, yeah, I don’t want the smell lingering,” and Nicola’s calmed down enough that she doesn’t mind the request.

She takes her first puff, blowing the smoke out through the window, asking over her shoulder, “There aren’t any photographers outside, are there?”

“If there are, I’ll have their heads cut off and stuck on spikes," Malcolm says as he approaches.

Nicola raises an eyebrow at him. “How very medieval of you,” she comments idly. Now that the first flush of anger is over with, Nicola’s starting to relax. Admittedly, the cigar is helping with that. She calls out to Jamie, who’s over at the other window with Sam, “These cigars aren’t bad, you know. Not actual Cuban cigars, but still not bad.”

Malcolm’s eying her now, asking, “What do you know about cigars, then?”

Nicola laughs up at him. “Plenty. My dad taught me how to smoke them, the summer before I left for university. He was something of a connoisseur, loved them. Here, let me show you.” It takes her a second to remember the exact trick with the jaw, but soon she’s blowing a series of perfect smoke rings out the window.

She lets the last of the smoke escape her lips, head tilted back, and she catches Malcolm’s eye and it’s--the oddness of the moment hits her, how she’s standing there in Malcolm Tucker’s house, with Malcolm Tucker, and how odd it is that she doesn’t feel odd, being here right now.

“Well, what do you know,” Malcolm says, watching her with a faint smile on his face. “That’s not bad at all.”

“No,” Nicola says, smiling as she looks away, back down at the lit cigar in her hand. “Oh, I shouldn’t be smoking these, I really shouldn’t.” She’s been so good about her health, these last few years, with the yoga and the fruit salads, but the smell of the cigars just takes her back to being a teenager again in her dad’s study. Nostalgia’s a powerful drug, of course.

“What was Hugh Abbott like, anyway?” Nicola asks, changing the subject as she puts out her cigar in the ashtray, picking up her whiskey glass instead. One vice at a time, she figures.

“Your predecessor?” At Nicola’s nod, Malcolm leans against the windowsill, saying, “There was never much to him. Just another stuffed shirt, you know? Only thing he ever wanted was job security and some positive press. Not that he ever got either one of those.”

“Hm,” Nicola says, taking another sip of her whiskey. “That’s what I thought.”

Malcolm’s still watching her however, eyes sharp, and says, “He wasn’t like you, you know. You’re far more of a hassle than he ever was, and twice the trouble.”

Nicola just laughs. “Malcolm, I am taking that as a compliment, so thank you."

“You should,” Malcolm says, to her surprise. “You should. Why do you ask about Hugh, anyway?”

“Oh--Terri mentioned him earlier, and I suppose I was curious,” Nicola says with a shrug. She doesn’t say that she wants to avoid making the same mistakes Abbott made, or that she’s wondering what makes her different enough from poor Hugh Abbott that Malcolm would take such an interest in her career.

Both of those things would be true, of course, but Nicola’s smart enough not to ask them out loud.

*

The ax comes down a couple of days later. DoSAC have been putting together a new policy, one where they give funding and support for afterschool programs for at-risk youth to play sports such as football and rugby, both the boys and the girls. It’s a pretty fantastic policy, if Nicola says so, and the entire department’s behind it.

That is, until Malcolm comes in late one afternoon to tell them the plug’s been pulled.

“What--Malcolm,” Nicola says, half-laughing in disbelief. “Malcolm, we ran this past you weeks ago and you gave us the green light. What possible...why on earth should we pull it now?”

“It tested through the roof with the focus groups,” Ollie protests. “Terri’s about to start floating it with the press--”

Malcolm’s got his hands shoved in his pockets as he says,“Yeah, well, you’ll just have to tell her to not float it then, won’t you?”

“What’s wrong with the policy?” Nicola asks, folding her arms over her chest. “What possible reason could you have for--”

“It’s been pointed out,” Malcolm says, almost delicately, “--that while the policy is a good one, it would be more appropriate if the Department of Sport were to handle it from now on.”

“They’re going to nick our idea?” Nicola asks, after a brief, appalled silence in the room. “They’re going to nick _our_ fucking policy, and you’re just going to let them do it?”

Malcolm at least has the courtesy to look her in the face when he says, simply, “Yeah.”

Nicola inhales sharply. “Malcolm, that is total and complete _bullshit_ \--”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers into a twist, sweetheart--”

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Nicola shouts back at him. “Don’t you call me sweetheart, don’t you comment on the state of my knickers, and don’t you fucking come in here and tell me--”

“I _am_ telling you,” Malcolm shouts back, just as heated. “I’m telling you that it’s _done_ , all right, and no amount of whining and carping’s going to--”

“Where is he?” Nicola hears Jamie shouting distantly, right before he bursts into the office, vibrating with fury.

“Jamie,” Nicola starts, barely keeping her voice steady, “Malcolm has just seen fit to inform us--”

“Oh, I heard,” Jamie says. “Nihal from Sport was just in the elevator, he couldn’t keep from gloating, the sour-faced cunt, least not until I put a boot in his eye to shut him up.” He turns his ire towards Malcolm, and spits out, “I am going to shove a ferret up your arse, Malcolm. Do you hear me right now, you bastard fuck? I will take a rabid, _diseased_ ferret and shove it up inside of you until it’s chewing on your intestines!”

“Well, that’s a lovely image,” Ollie murmurs as Jamie and Malcolm set right into each other. Over their shouting, he turns to Nicola and asks, “Should I go and tell Terri to put everything on hold until this gets sorted?”

Nicola nods wearily, waving him off. As Ollie exits, warily circling around the wildly yelling and gesticulating Jamie and Malcolm, Nicola sits back down in her seat, fuming as she rubs at her temples.

Finally, after the argument’s devolved as low as it can possibly go, Nicola cuts in. “Malcolm,” she says, and then repeats herself at a louder volume when that fails to shut them up. “Malcolm, is this done? Is it a _fait accompli_ , then?”

“Yes,” Malcolm snaps. “It’s done.”

“Great, okay, then get the hell out,” Nicola snaps. “You’ve delivered the message, now kindly fuck off.”

She’s too angry and disappointed to care about the way Malcolm’s eyeing her, to care if she’s gone too far in speaking to him that way.

Malcolm stares at her, then leans in, bracing himself over her desk. Nicola stares back, not flinching when he says, voice even and menacing, “Compose yourself, get together with your advisors, find yourself a new policy. Something free and non-controversial that nobody could complain about.”

“Oh, is that all?” Nicola retorts, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah, that’ll do for now,” Malcolm says, snide.

“What was even the point of this, anyway, huh?” Jamie asks from behind Malcolm. “You bring me back here, tell me to work with her, we finally start getting somewhere and _that’s_ when you decide to stab us in the back?”

“Grow the fuck up, Jamie,” Malcolm says, voice cutting. “I expect you to know how this works, even if she doesn’t. Pull yourselves together and just find a new policy, all right? Jesus Christ, you lot are like sobbing five-year-olds, whining to your mum about how the fucking neighbor kids down the road stole your sweets.”

He walks out, and Jamie and Nicola stare at each other for a minute, both of them still seething, before Jamie says, viciously, “Right then,” and goes tearing after Malcolm.

Nicola leans back in her seat, and wonders if it’s too early in the day to start drinking.

Glenn and Ollie come in a few moments later. “Is it safe to come back in?” Ollie asks. “Has the mushroom cloud finally died down?”

“We need a new policy,” Nicola says through gritted teeth. “Let’s get to brainstorming, shall we?”

“Oh, Christ,” Glenn says in dismay, but they get started, and by the time Jamie comes back in, huffing and muttering to himself, still wild-eyed, they’ve got a short working list with a frontrunner at the top.

“The Fourth Sector?” Jamie repeats, incredulous. “That idea is total shit and you know it.”

“Hey,” Ollie says, sounding injured. “It isn’t...it’s not _total_ shit.”

“Well of fucking course Shit Boy here thinks it’s not total shit, and what would you know? You’ve got shit for brains, you fucking arse,” Jamie says, though his heart’s clearly not in it. He proves as much when he turns to Nicola and says, “It’s _shit_ , Nicola, surely you’ve got to see that?”

Nicola sighs. “Jamie, we need a policy, and this is cheap as fuck, so our evil Scottish overlord won’t object. If you have a better suggestion, believe me, I am all ears.”

Jamie scowls, but it’s clear he doesn’t have a better plan. “Fuck it, all right, let’s grit our teeth and bear it, to quote the poor girl Ollie lost his virginity to. We’ll go with the Fourth Sector plan for now, but I want all our energies focused on this debate with Mannion, yeah? I want you,” he says, pointing at Nicola, “--to prep for this like you’re cramming for your GCSEs, all right?”

Jamie takes a breath. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to smash the fuckers at Sport. Cheers.”

As he exits, Ollie lets out a breath. “Why did we give that nutter the keys to the asylum again?” he asks, giving Nicola a resentful look.

“You have to admit,” Glenn says, looking thoughtful, “--he is good at his job. Insane, but good. And it’s pretty clear his loyalty’s not with Malcolm anymore, so that’s something.”

“Oh?” Nicola says, her ears pricking up. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you weren’t around for this, but back when Jamie was in Communications, he and Malcolm were as thick as thieves, he was Malcolm’s right hand up until it all went wrong. So when he came back, I suppose I figured he was here on Malcolm’s behalf, you know. Keep an eye on us. But judging from that rather massive flame-up just now, I doubt that’s true.”

Yeah, Nicola doesn’t think that’s true either. But now she’s starting to finally wonder just why Jamie is here at all.


	4. Chapter Four

Jamie is true to his word, and while they’re still launching the Fourth Sector policy, the main focus is on PR, on glad-handing with other ministers and their advisors, getting Nicola’s name out in the press, along with the actual job of votes in Parliament and dealing with her constituency. It’s hectic, Nicola barely has time to even breathe some days, and yet that works out for the best, because if she doesn’t have time to breathe, then she doesn’t have time to panic. Or fuck up.

Jamie even starts taking the stairs with her every day--oh, he mocks her for it every chance he gets, but he also says that taking the stairs with her gets his blood flowing, gives him more energy to start tearing the heads off every bastard that fucks something up, “--which, darling, given this fucking wreck of a department, is a lot of fucking heads.”

With one thing and another, it’s a miracle if she can get home before seven. She tries to make it up to the kids by insisting to Jamie that weekends are off-limits, and filling those weekends with fun activities for the kids, like going to the shops or cinemas or even to the zoo. It seems to make the kids happy enough--Ben, Josh, and Ella like the zoo, while Katie appreciates the shopping trips--but it leaves Nicola feeling exhausted.

Finally, one Friday night, Nicola’s left with nothing to do for once--Katie and Ella are both staying overnight with friends, Ben and Josh are off at their grandparents. So Nicola decides to go to the pub, have a mojito, and simply relax for once. Take a night off from being Nicola Murray, Secretary of State, Minister of Social Affairs and Citizenship, and protege of the maddest man ever to come out of Scotland.

When she gets to the pub and sees Malcolm there, sitting in his usual booth, she thinks of simply ignoring him, and at first, she does just that, staying at the bar and sipping at her mojito.

It’s quite peaceful, actually, no one trying to approach her, nobody shouting or demanding anything. Quiet and peaceful.

It’s a measure, Nicola thinks, of how much Jamie’s warped her that by the time she gets her second mojito, she is actually _bored_.

Bored, and just reckless enough to grab her drink and sit down in Malcolm’s booth. “Hello, Malcolm.”

Malcolm lifts his head and glares at her like she’s a piece of hair he’s found in his plate. “Just what do you think you’re fucking doing?” he asks, but without the customary snap to his voice. His tie’s loose round his neck, and his hair is sticking up at the front, and perhaps it’s how relatively harmless he looks right now, or simply the mojitos giving her liquid courage, but Nicola’s not intimidated.

Well. Not much, anyway.

“I’m sitting,” Nicola says, making a show of looking around the booth. “You see, Malcolm, it’s this thing you do when you park your bum on a horizontal surface. Generally considered to be the antonym of standing--”

“You’re a regular Jennifer Saunders, aren’t you,” Malcolm says, taking another sip of his drink, whiskey from the look of it. “Right, Nicola, so what do you want?”

“Why isn’t Jamie working with you?” Nicola asks, abrupt. Malcolm raises an eyebrow at her, and so Nicola elaborates, “He’s overqualified to be one of my advisors, we all know it, and from what everyone tells me, he used to be your right hand, so...so why isn’t he still your right hand?”

Malcolm just glares at her balefully, so Nicola shrugs and holds up a hand, “Fine, don’t tell me. Your loss is my gain, I suppose.”

“Well, isn’t this a lovely turn of fucking events,” Malcolm says, nearly spitting the words out. “I have apparently sunk so fucking low that I’ve got to sit here and listen to your fucking dribble. Fuck me.”

He falls silent, glowering over his drink, but he doesn’t tell her to leave either--or force her to leave by insulting her, so Nicola feels that’s nearly as good as an invitation to stay, which she does. She can’t explain why she does, just that she wants to.

In this lighting, with his head lowered just so, Nicola can’t help but notice how long Malcolm’s eyelashes are. Silly thing for her to notice, totally inconsequential, and yet there she is. Noticing it.

“You look tired,” Nicola says, before she can think the better of it.

Malcolm lifts his head. “Why, thank you Nicola,” he says, pouring sarcasm down on her head, “--thank you for that fucking amazing fucking observation. Maybe I look tired because I’ve been putting massive fires out every fucking day with nothing but a fucking _water pistol_ as backup, with the fucking hacks lurking with enormous dildos the size of horse cocks, ready to fuck us all without lube the first chance they get.”

Thanks to Jamie’s influence, that charming visual barely even registers--Nicola finds herself tracking Malcolm’s hands as they slash through the air, emphasizing his words, and on the rasp in his voice, how it sounds ragged and rich at the same time.

Nicola comes back to herself after one or two bewildering seconds, her mind finally going clear as she wonders just what the fuck she’s playing at. She’s not--she _isn’t_. She just isn’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Malcolm asks, his forehead furrowing. “You look like you’ve just smelled rotting goat.”

Thank fuck, that snaps her out of it. “Oh, like you’ve ever smelled rotting goat in your entire life,” Nicola says, relieved and hiding it under an annoyed tone. “Anyway, look, I should get going, it’s late.”

“Oh, so you’re finally fucking off?” Malcolm asks as she gets up. “Toodle-oo then.”

He gives her a smirk as a goodbye and turns back to his drink, but dammit, god-fucking-dammit, Nicola can’t quite just leave it at that.

“Bit of friendly advice?” Nicola says, keeping her voice light.

Malcolm glances up. “The day I take advice from you, sweetheart, is the day I slit my fucking wrists with a dull, rusty knife. No thanks.”

“Well, I’m giving it to you anyway,” Nicola says. “Go home, Malcolm. Get some food, get some sleep, come back on Monday ready to slay dragons and make cabinet ministers cry. It’s what you do best, after all. Goodnight.”

Nicola heads out after that, feeling unsatisfied and unsettled in equal measure.

It doesn’t matter, Nicola decides later. One moment of madness doesn’t change anything, for Christ’s sake. Even if she had thought...anything, it doesn’t count, just thinking something doesn’t mean--

It doesn’t matter, Nicola isn’t going to think about it any further. And she doesn’t.

Mostly.

*

Some days, Nicola thinks she’s gotten too used to Jamie’s behavior. Tonight, when they’re prepping for the Radio 5 debate, is one of those nights.

“Well, Richard, I’m glad you asked that because I believe--” Nicola cuts herself off mid-answer, because Jamie is making a very rude gesture that’s meant to be miming cunnilingus. Nicola watches his tongue moving between his fingers with a fascinated horror, before saying, “God, I hope that’s not what your actual technique is with women.”

Terri jerks her head up, the poor woman, and Jamie actually stops to stare at her. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Nicola says, her voice only a little bit strangled, “It just, it looks a little bit like a dodgy blender that’s gone on the fritz, you know.” In the back, Terri’s got her hands clapped over her mouth, eyes wide, and Nicola has to bite her lip before she says anything else. Or laughs at the look on Jamie’s face.

After a second of strangled silence, Jamie starts pointing at her notebook. “Stick to the talking points. And let me tell you something, I have had _no_ complaints, okay? I could show you glowing letters of recommendation from every woman I’ve--”

“Okay, okay,” Nicola says, bending her head back down over the notepad, the better to hide the twitching of her lips.

“To think,” Terri says to no one in particular, “I could’ve studied accounting at university.”

Jamie whirls around and shouts, pointing at her, “I have had _no_ complaints!”

They get through the rest of their prep without incident--well, aside from Jamie miming fellatio once or twice, but that’s barely a blip by now.

“Well!” Terri says once they’ve finished. “I think we’ve done some very good work here, I really do. You’re very well-prepared, Nicola, and I’m sure you’ll do well.”

The condescending tone grates a little, but Nicola just smiles and says, “Thanks, Terri.”

*

“Now, don’t be nervous,” Glenn cautions her as they walk into the BBC studios. It’s the fifth time he’s said that this evening, so Nicola could be excused for rolling her eyes at him, but she stops herself.

“I’m not nervous,” Nicola mutters back at him, and Glenn gives her a dubious look. So do Terri and Ollie. “I’m really not,” Nicola says, although she can’t blame them for not believing it. She’s not even sure _she_ believes it, for fuck’s sake.

“Of course she’s fucking all right,” Jamie says stoutly, and Nicola smiles gratefully at him.

The truth is that Nicola keeps waiting for the nerves to take over, for her palms to get all sweaty, her chest to go tight, even for her vision to blur at the edges the way it does during the very worst of her panic attacks--but there’s nothing. There’s the faintest of butterflies in her stomach and that’s all.

They go into the tiny green room to wait, Jamie complaining about the size, saying, “The fuck is this, I’ve seen bigger prison cells for fuck’s sake,” and Peter Mannion and his team are already there waiting.

Nicola exchanges cool nods with Mannion; Ollie takes no time in exchanging shots with Phil and Emma, but that’s to be expected. Jamie, of course, takes great glee in tearing Phil down to size, which is also to be expected, given that it’s Jamie and given that Phil is a tit.

More than once, Nicola catches Mannion’s gaze flickering between her and Jamie. She’s not sure what that’s all about, but Nicola doesn’t have time to worry over it, because soon enough they’re going into the studio, saying their hellos to Richard Bacon, and settling in for the debate.

Just to test herself, Nicola holds out her left hand, to see if it’s shaking. It’s perfectly still. Her right hand’s folded in her lap, fingers wrapped right around her ever-present paper clip.

She’s smiling into the microphone when Richard introduces her, coming in exactly on cue, and Nicola can’t help but take it as a good omen.

During the first commercial break, Nicola’s aware of everyone staring at her, from Richard to Mannion to the producer in the booth. “Is there something on my face?” she has to finally ask, and Richard gives a self-conscious laugh.

“No, no. Just--you seem very calm tonight, Minister.”

Nicola tries to fight off a sudden grin, and fails. “Yeah. Have you ever met Jamie MacDonald, Richard?”

She’s not sure in this lighting, but Richard actually seems to have gone a little pale. “I’ve, erm--I’ve heard of him a bit, yeah.”

“He’s one of my political advisors,” Nicola tells him. “Ever since I hired him, you know it’s the damnedest thing, but I find myself feeling a lot more zen these days.”

She catches Jamie’s eye in the booth and grins, wide enough to beat the band, because it’s true. After having to keep her composure in the face of Jamie MacDonald miming both cunilingus and fellatio, Radio 5 and Richard Bacon have lost the power to unnerve her. And it feels fucking wonderful.

Mannion’s watching her with disbelieving eyes, and he says finally, “You know, I always wondered if all the ministers this government got for DoSAC were just utterly mad, and now I’m sure of it.” He glances over his shoulder to look at Jamie in the booth, and when Jamie theatrically winks at him, Mannion shakes his head and repeats, “Totally sure of it.”

They come back from commercial, heading back into the debate and Nicola doesn’t need anyone to tell her she’s doing great, because she knows it, all on her own. It feels like her days at university, or days when she’d go over to her in-laws when James was still alive, and she could talk politics with assurance in the face of their disapproval, because she knew what she was doing, dammit.

It’s taken far too long for her to feel like that at DoSAC, but she does feel like that now, and she knows what she’s doing here, and she’s going to rub Peter Mannion’s face in it.

Nicola’s halfway through ripping Mannion’s figures to shreds when she looks up and catches sight of Malcolm and Stewart, the Opposition’s PR guy, standing in the producer’s booth with Jamie and Emma. Malcolm’s grinning in what appears to be genuine delight, while Stewart’s scowling, arms folded as he tries to harass the poor producer into cutting Mannion some slack.

Nicola would duck her head to hide her smile, except that she has to talk into the microphone, and also she doesn’t want to hide it at all. “So,” she says, wrapping up, “I’m sorry, Peter, but the facts just don’t seem to be in favor of what you’re stating.”

“Peter?” Richard prods. “Anything to counter?”

“I,” Mannion starts, looking more than a little gobsmacked, “Well, I, er.”

“And on that note, we are going to a commercial break,” Richard says, and Nicola’s smiling as she leans back in her chair.

It doesn’t all go to plan--the economy is the Party’s huge weak spot, something Mannion does expose from time to time, but Nicola sticks to her talking points, and comes out of it all right. It helps, of course, that Mannion seems to be genuinely discomfited by how she’s not the same bundle of nerves she was last time, and from all of Stewart’s shouting in the booth, which would put anyone off.

Nicola will admit, it’s a strange feeling to watch someone else’s advisers behaving more badly than Jamie. She’s fairly sure Glenn and Ollie had a tenner on Jamie being the first person to get thrown out.

At long last, Richard is signing off, the debate is done, and Nicola is having to bite at her lips to keep from doing anything too unseemly, like cackling with joy.

“Fucking _brilliant,_ ” Jamie declares the minute she’s out of the studio. “Fucking--” He actually reaches out and shakes her shoulders, apparently lost for words, and Malcolm taps him on the head in reproof as he walks up to them.

“Quit that, she’s not a crying toddler,” he says, but even Malcolm--Malcolm!--is smiling at her. “Not bad, Murray, not bad at all.”

“Not bad?” Jamie says, disbelieving as he rounds on Malcolm. They start squabbling a bit, and Nicola tunes them out as Glenn, Ollie, and Terri approach, offering their congratulations and their surprise, heavy on the latter.

As a show of solidarity, perhaps, they all end up taking the stairs, Jamie swearing that they’re all going out to celebrate and that he’ll be buying the first round, “--well, for Nicola and Terri, and maybe Glenn, but you’re on your own Ollie, I refuse to buy a round of fucking chocolate milk or whatever it is you drink--”

“Nicola, hang on,” Malcolm calls out as they get out of the building and start piling into the waiting car. Nicola blinks, but hangs back, gesturing at Jamie to close the door.

“That was some fucking good work tonight,” Malcolm says as Nicola approaches, and when Nicola lets out a soft laugh, he insists, “No, I’m being serious right now, that was good work back there. You knew your lines, you weren’t flustered, you made Mannion look like a disconnected _tit_ \--”

“Well, I was just doing my part,” Nicola says with a shrug, even though she’s still giddy, unable to keep the smile off her face. “It’s my job after all, isn’t it?”

Malcolm’s gaze is still on her, as he says, “You’d be surprised how many fuckers can’t even manage that much. It was impressive.”

“Malcolm Tucker, impressed!” Nicola says, incredulous. The wind picks up, and she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Now I know I’m dreaming.”

“Yeah, well,” Malcolm gives an elaborate shrug, but his eyes are still on her. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nicola says, quieter than she means to, because, well. Having the full force of Malcolm Tucker’s attention on you is--disconcerting. Or something that feels too close to thrilling for Nicola’s comfort.

It could be hunger, it could be the long-awaited nerves finally making an appearance after the fact, but Nicola knows better. She knows better than this, she _has_ to know better than to do this--

But here she is.

“We should get back to the car,” Nicola says after a moment, hoping to God her voice sounds normal, that whatever madness is going inside her head, she’s at least not giving it away.

Malcolm shakes his head. “No, no, you go on. Have fun, try not to get pissed on too many mojitos or whatever ridiculous fluffy drink you’ll be having tonight.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Nicola asks in surprise.

Malcolm shrugs again, hands shoved into his pockets. “Nah, I’m taking a walk. Could use the fresh air.”

“All right,” Nicola says slowly. “Goodnight, Malcolm.”

She scrambles into the car without glancing back, saying brightly, “Are we ready to go then?”

Everyone’s watching her, and Jamie outright asks, “What were you two chatting away about?”

The lie comes easily to Nicola’s lips. “Oh, Malcolm just wanted to make sure I didn’t let tonight’s success go to my head. Keep me in my place, I think.”

Glenn and Ollie seem to buy it well enough, but Terri’s giving her a considering glance, and Jamie--Nicola looks away from Jamie’s narrow-eyed glare, and quickly changes the subject.

The next day at work, the cupboards are fully stocked with lemon zinger tea, and Nicola can’t find anyone willing to admit they did it--although Ollie tries to take the credit, once he realizes how pleased she is.

On a hunch, Nicola emails Sam a quick thank you, and gets a prompt _You’re welcome. :) in reply._

*

After the debate, Nicola's profile skyrockets. There are pieces in the Guardian, the Telegraph, and the Independent about the debate itself, and the Daily Mail does a bit about female politicians in government where she’s one of the politicians profiled. They pick a semi-flattering picture of her, which Nicola’s thankful for. She even goes on Question Time and manages not to make a fool of herself, keeping her trusty paper clip in hand and making sure to call everyone there by their first names, as Jamie’s coached her on time and time again.

It changes things within Richmond Terrace as well. Suddenly Nicola’s having more people nodding hello in the corridors when she walks past, or inviting her out for drinks after work. Even in the department, Nicola notices the difference--Ollie and Glenn making more of an effort to impress, Terri actually giving more of an effort than Nicola’s ever seen from her before. Even with Jamie--he behaves the same to her as he always has, but there’s an extra bounce to him now, an extra zing to all of his rants.

Jamie comes in as she’s finalizing plans with Clare Ballentine for drinks later in the week, and waits until she’s finished, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Ballentine, eh?” Jamie says once she’s hung up. “Tell her I said hello, and good luck with that gambling addiction.”

Nicola blinks. “Wait, gambling--”

“Online poker,” Jamie says with relish. “Remind me to tell you that story sometime.”

“Will do,” Nicola says, rolling her eyes fondly. “God, if my schedule gets any more packed, I’ll need to start scheduling time to breathe.”

“You’re turning into a success story now, aren’t you?” Jamie says with a shrug. “And God knows, we don’t have too many of those running about at the moment.”

Nicola goes still, thinking about the numbers--unemployment, stock market, polling--and nods. “No, I suppose we don’t.”

Both of them are silent a moment, then Jamie mutters to himself, “Fucking Tom, I knew he’d be--” He cuts himself off and sighs, and the latter is so foreign coming from Jamie that Nicola asks, “Everything all right, Jamie?”

“No,” Jamie says, blunt. “But you will be. You’ll be fucking all right, even if I have to bend the universe to my will to manage it.”

Nicola smiles at him. “Why is it that every time I talk to you, I suddenly get flashbacks to My Fair Lady?”

“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the fucking plain, Eliza,” Jamie retorts.

Drinks with Clare Ballentine turns out to be rather enjoyable, far more than Nicola was expecting. Clare is calm and composed with a rather dry wit, the kind of woman that used to make Nicola feel horribly self-conscious and flighty by comparison.

She doesn’t feel self-conscious now, the two of them swapping stories about their advisers and about dealing with Malcolm, each story more far-fetched than the next, the drinks flowing freely.

“I tell you what, though,” Clare says finally, setting down her pint. “I am very much looking forward to the fireworks that’ll come once Steve Fleming arrives.”

Nicola sets down her mojito with a thunk. “They’re bringing back Fleming?” she asks, too astonished and dismayed to even attempt a poker face. “Oh Christ.”

“Yes, that was my reaction as well, come to think of it,” Clare says dryly, gesturing to the barman to refill her pint. “At Number 10, though...there’s panic in the air. Enough panic to make people think Fleming’s the answer, God help us all.”

“Fuck, does he still have that mustache?” Nicola asks, and at Clare’s rueful nod, groans. “Christ, I remember meeting him and he’d always go in for the kiss on the cheek--ugh.” She shudders dramatically at the thought--Nicola has nothing against mustaches in theory, but Fleming’s mustache, along with the rest of him, was totally repugnant. So bristley, it just felt like a toilet brush against your skin.

“Oh, he did that to every woman,” Clare says, putting a stress on the words that grabs Nicola’s attention. Clare nods carefully at Nicola’s questioning look, confirming, “When people talk about Fleming’s exit, they focus on his clashing with Malcolm, but...well, let’s just say other things were swept under the rug.”

“Jesus,” Nicola mutters, and Clare hums in agreement, sipping at her pint. “And the PM’s really bringing him back?”

“The PM is really bringing him back,” Clare says. She pauses, and then adds, “Do me a favor, will you? The first time Fleming’s in a room with Jamie MacDonald, make sure someone’s filming it. I’d pay to see that.”

Nicola lets out a half-laugh, half-groan at the thought. “I’ll do my best, but I’ll probably be too busy trying to keep Jamie from getting arrested for murder.”

Clare laughs, even though they both know that with Jamie it could be a real possibility, before asking, “How did you manage it?”

“Manage what?”

“Jamie MacDonald. From all accounts, he’s...surprisingly loyal to you. Of course, it makes sense that he’s not in Communications any longer, given how spectacularly he burned his bridges with Tom and his lot, but still.” Clare cocks her head, waiting for Nicola’s answer.

The truth is, Nicola has no idea what to say here. She trusts in Jamie’s loyalty to her, yes, but she’s still not sure how she managed to earn it in the first place.

Clare, thankfully, lets her off the hook after a moment, saying casually, “But then, why look a gift horse in the mouth? No matter how much it swears.”

They say their goodbyes not long after that--Clare, as it turns out, is going to a gambling support group, a bit of news she imparts with a knowing look at Nicola--and once Nicola’s back in her car, heading home, she calls Jamie up with the news of Fleming’s return, sure for once that he doesn’t already know.

His response is everything she expects. “Fleming? That fat, balding, jumped-up walrus _cunt?_ That walking sexual harassment lawsuit is coming back into Government?”

“Yes,” Nicola says, and has the pleasure of listening to Jamie viciously swear in her ear for five minutes straight--so nothing new there. Once he’s paused for breath though, Nicola interjects, “Jamie, look--this isn’t good for Malcolm at all, is it?”

Jamie actually pauses for a moment. “No,” he says finally. “But that’s not our problem, okay? That’s not your problem at all, and anyway, Malcolm can look out for himself.”

“Right,” Nicola says after a second. “Of course he can.”

*

The DoSAC party’s been in the works for months, and truthfully, Nicola hadn’t looked forward to it at all.

So it’s something of a shock to realize she’s having fun. The alcohol is probably the reason for it--and Christ, there’s a lot of alcohol. Whoever thought of having this much alcohol at a party ought to commended, Nicola should make a note of it.

And she will, once the song stops playing. “I get knocked down, but I get up again,” Nicola sings along under her breath, giggling a little. She’s drunk enough to sing, sure, but not drunk enough yet to belt the song out loud.

“Dignity,” she explains to one of the interns. “A minister should always be dignified, so no singing for me, sadly.”

Given that the entire room is warbling along with Tubthumping, this seems like a real shame that Nicola can’t join in, but-- “Dignity,” she says, solemnly, only to find that the intern is gone, and Jamie is by her elbow instead. “Jamie!” she says, beaming up at him.

“Oh Christ save us, you’re pissed,” Jamie says, eyeing her with far more wariness than the situation deserves, Nicola feels. It’s a party, she’s allowed to be a little tipsy.

“Not when you’re a chatty drunk, you aren’t,” Jamie insists, taking her by the elbow to lead her away from the party.

Nicola tries to bite back her laughter, she really does try, but a few giggles escape her anyway. “How many mojitos have you had?” Jamie asks as they go into her office.

Nicola considers this, and says gravely, “Lots.”

“Well, thank fuck you’re out of the way then,” Jamie says. “No need to give anyone blackmail material.”

“Aside from you, you mean,” Nicola points out, and Jamie laughs. “Yeah, exactly.”

Nicola sits on the edge of her desk, asking curiously, “So what, are you going to babysit me tonight?” She laughs a little, and adds, “Not too different from your usual job then, I suppose.”

Jamie, to Nicola’s surprise, is silent, before flinging the door back open. “Right. If I’m babysitting you tonight, I’m going to need a lot more liquor. I’m going for the fucking whiskey.”

“Get me a glass,” Nicola calls out after him.

Jamie comes back with the bottle. “I’d have gone for the glasses too, but Robyn was over in the corner, and she was looking all weepy. I hate weepy drunks, they’re the fucking worst.” He looks at Nicola, and rolls his eyes. “Get off the fucking desk before you fall off.”

They end up sitting on the floor in the corner behind Nicola’s desk, swapping the bottle of whiskey back and forth between them. It takes a few swallows of whiskey before Nicola finally gets the nerve up to ask the question she’s been wondering for ages.

“Why aren’t you working for Malcolm anymore?”

Jamie barely hesitates in his reply. “Easy. He doesn’t fucking trust me anymore.”

“He was the one who told me to hire you,” Nicola says, surprised at this.

Jamie offers her a grin. “Not the same thing. And anyway, it’s not like I trust him any more either. I know him, but I don’t trust him.”

“Oh,” Nicola says. She takes another pull from the bottle, not sure what to say next, but Jamie continues, mockingly asking her. “Does that disappoint you then? Sorry we’re not really playing Happy Political Families after all?”

Nicola looks at Jamie, and offers the truth. “I’m sorry you two aren’t friends anymore,” she says, not caring in this moment if it sounds soppy.

Jamie stares at her for a moment, looking almost startled, then he scoffs. “Fuck me,” he mutters. “Just give us that fucking bottle then, eh?”

Jamie takes more than one pull off it, but Nicola doesn’t mind. They sit there quietly for a while, listening to the music outside and the sound of everyone laughing and chatting, Jamie drinking from the whiskey bottle and Nicola leaning against the wall, trying to gauge when she’ll be sober enough to slip out of here.

“He said I’d like you,” Jamie eventually mutters, softly enough that Nicola isn’t sure for a moment whether she’s heard him correctly. “He said I’d like you and he was fucking right, the fucking twat.”

Nicola blinks at him, shocked. “Malcolm said that?”

When Jamie lifts his head up to look at her, he looks almost shockingly young, all big blue eyes and tousled hair. “He said you were a shit politician, but that you had a bit of fight in you. That you weren’t like the rest of these cookie-cutter Oxbridge cunts."

Nicola feels the smile come to her lips, and says, "Well, I'm glad you came then."

Jamie pulls a face. "Fuck me, enough of this sentimental wank. Let's get the fuck out of here, eh? Get your drunk arse home so you'll be ready for the media tomorrow."

Miraculously, they manage to slip out of the party, Nicola leaving first and Jamie following a minute later. Once she's at the stairs, Nicola slips out of her heels--she's tipsy enough still that she doesn't want to risk tripping.

She doesn't fall, but it turns out she should've told Jamie to watch his feet as well.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Nicola gasps as Jamie lies on the floor, clutching at his head and groaning. "Fuck, Jamie, are you all right?"

"Do I _look_ fucking all right?" Jamie asks, rubbing at the back of his head.

"Did you break anything?"

Jamie rotates his shoulder with a wince, but says, "Nah, just my head. Christ, but it's aching."

"Do you have a concussion?" Nicola asks next, and Jamie gives her a disgusted look.

"How the fuck would I know if I had?" Jamie asks, trying to get to his feet. Nicola helps him to his feet, but Jamie's still shaken up, unsteady on his feet, his blue eyes unfocused.

"We should call an ambulance," Nicola tells him, but Jamie flat out refuses, and that's how Nicola spends half the night in the waiting room at a nearby A&E, until the doctor confirms that Jamie does have a mild concussion, and that none of Jamie's threats and curses won't change how he needs to take at least the rest of the week off work and recover.

"Done," Nicola decides, and Jamie turns his rage on her, but Nicola has become rather immune these past few months, plus Jamie's usual intimidation tactics lack the same heft when he's in a hospital gown, looking rather pitiful. "You need the rest," Nicola tells him, "--and besides--"

"Besides," Sam says as she enters the room, her usual air of amusement intact, despite the late hour, "--nobody's going to listen to you when there's actually _proof_ something's wrong with your head."

"You called her?" Jamie asks, indignant, and at Nicola's shrug, says, "That's _cheating_."

"Yes, and who taught me how to do that?" Nicola retorts, and Sam chuckles.

"I've got it from here, Nicola, thanks for the call."

Nicola waves goodnight as she exits, ignoring Jamie's renewed swearing. She gets into the car with a sigh, leaning her tired head against the window for a moment before telling the driver to head on home.


	5. Chapter Five

Nicola doesn't wake up in the morning knowing that her day is about to turn to utter shit. She just wakes up with an awful headache and a foul taste in her mouth, and the kids all shouting through the house as they get ready for school.

Her headache doesn’t go away, not even with the paracetamol she downs with her coffee, so Nicola sighs and puts on a bright blue dress in order to hopefully cheer herself up a bit. It doesn’t work, and by the time she gets into the office Nicola is frankly dragging her feet.

In the office Ollie is gleefully reenacting Jamie’s fall, never mind that he hadn’t even seen it--and Nicola observes him for a moment before saying, mildly, “It’s going to be so much fun, watching Jamie tear you to shreds when he gets back.”

Ollie jumps a little, scrambling back up to his feet. “He’s not,” Ollie insists, with a sort of bravado that’s weirdly impressive, given how obviously fake it is. “Secret’s out, isn’t it? His bark’s worse than his bite.”

Nicola gives him a disbelieving look, then shrugs. “If you like to think so. Me, I’ll be in the corner, not getting bit.”

Terri comes in then, wearing a pair of colorful trainers that Nicola’s rather jealous of--sure they look like they were designed by a five-year-old, but Christ, they look comfy--and they get started with the business of getting through this blasted Fourth Sector launch.

The launch is meant to be rather muted--Jamie’s idea--but there are still going to be journalists at the launch, still an interview with the BBC. Nicola’s job is to polish the turd as much as she can--Jamie’s words--and get through the day with her dignity intact.

It starts out well enough, she’s being interviewed by some nobody from the BBC, Gavin something, and Nicola’s fended off Terri’s attempts at adding more makeup to her face, because under the circumstances, Nicola will take looking a bit tired and frumpy over looking like she’s taken makeup lessons from a drag queen.

It starts out fine, aside from Terri staring at her off-camera like a shark that hasn’t had a meal in weeks, and then the first iceberg appears, and the worst part is that it’s an iceberg Nicola’s steered herself right into.

“I should say best person, shouldn’t I?” Nicola says, in the middle of her stock answer about how Tom is absolutely not a lame-duck PM, no sir, please pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

Terri reassures her, but Nicola can tell from the gleam in Gavin’s eye--and the way he presses her on the issue of a potential female leader--that he thinks he’s got something here, damn it all to hell. So Nicola smiles as brightly as she can, prays she’s not sweating underneath the hot lights, and tries her hardest to smooth over her tiny, tiny slip-up.

“I believe, absolutely, that the Prime Minister is the best _person_ for the job,” she says, and crosses her fingers and her toes that it’ll end there.

It doesn’t. Because today is the absolute worst day possible, and Nicola just hasn’t realized it yet.

*

Fucking hell, it’s like Nicola’s laid out sugar water and attracted all the bastards in government today. First Ben Swain, whining about some potential policy Ollie was talking up last night that was supposedly his policy first, and then Malcolm appearing out of nowhere, when he’s supposed to be safely off in Spain with the PM.

Nicola’s stomach does this odd little lurch at the sight of Malcolm in his gray suit, and she can’t blame it on her lingering hangover.

Right. Okay. So she’s gone all...whatever over Malcolm, it’s not like she’s the first woman in the world to have an inappropriate fancy for someone at work. Even if that someone is as categorically mad as Malcolm Tucker, and oh sweet Christ, what the fuck is she doing?

Thankfully, nobody’s noticing if she seems a little flustered at the moment, too distracted with how Malcolm is apparently flying apart at the seams a little. Nicola watches him with raised eyebrows from her desk, because, well--it’s a strange thing, seeing Malcolm Tucker discomfited by something. Or by anything, for that matter.

Nicola still does smile at the sight of Malcolm accidentally apologizing for something, though.

The smile doesn’t last long, as Malcolm starts describing the mood at Number 10, and despite herself, Nicola flashes back to her interview, to how her tiny, tiny slip-up could be taken in this environment--

“Anyway, this interview, right? How’d it go?” Malcolm asks them, folding his arms.

Terri, apparently still unconcerned by what’s happening, exits to take a phone call, but Nicola’s instincts are screaming at her, so with a sigh, Nicola says, “It was--well, there might be a small, small issue.” Malcolm’s already starting to glare, so Nicola quickly explains about the wording mixup, wrapping up with, “I just--I thought it might sound like I thought I was the best woman for the job.”

That gets her a narrow-eyed glare for a second, before Malcolm shakes his head sharply and goes, “Right, Nicola, no offense, but you’re not exactly leadership material right now, okay?”

Nicola gives him a glare of her own. She knows it’s unlikely, for fuck’s sake, but if there’s anything she’s learned in her time at DoSAC, it’s to never, ever give the media any kind of opening, no matter how small it might seem, because they can turn it into a great big fucking canyon and push you right over the edge of the cliff.

And sure enough, Terri comes in with the news, and Nicola is in fact right there on the BBC website, the interview artfully edited to make her sound like she’s actually going after Tom’s job, like she even wants to be PM in the first place, Jesus fucking Christ--

“This is bad,” Malcolm declares, as if they can’t see that already. “This is fucking bad.”

“No fucking shit, Malcolm,” Nicola says, holding her face in her hands. It’s hardly her biggest problem right now, but there is a small, vain part of her cringing at how washed-out her face seems on the video. God, maybe she should’ve let Terri put some more makeup on her face.

Terri’s sent off by Malcolm to deliver a harsh rebuke to the BBC, but the warning bells in Nicola’s head--the ones that have been ringing since she said the phrase “best man for the job”--are ringing even louder now, so she quietly pulls Malcolm aside and says, “Malcolm, are we--are you sure this is the right call here? I mean, this could just make things worse, couldn’t it? Make them think they’ve got a live one? Shouldn't we leave it alone, ignore it?”

Malcolm vetoes that, of course, and the sinking feeling in Nicola’s stomach gets worse. Christ, she’s gotten too used to things going smoothly, to Jamie shouting everyone into submission, to feeling like she’s got all the answers.

That old clenching feeling of panic is starting to come back, and that’s before Nicola catches sight of the journalists outside the building, lying in wait like lions in the savanna grass, and Nicola is the poor fucking antelope they want to eat.

As Malcolm runs around, instituting some kind of mad lockdown in response, all Nicola can do is lean against the wall and wish, fervently, that she could switch places with Jamie right this second. A concussion sounds fucking lovely right now.

*

Between Malcolm scuttling back and forth while he tries to quell the rumors, and Ben making snide comments from his seat, it takes Nicola a second to notice the increasingly alarmed faces Ollie is making at his desk, until he makes a sudden, startled, “Oh.”

“Oh? Oh what?” Nicola asks, whirling about. “Oh _what_ , Ollie, you can’t just leave it there.”

“No, it’s just--um. All the papers seem to be, well, seem to be running with the idea of you announcing your leadership bid today. And they’re actually making it sound...plausible.”

Nicola goes very, very still. “They’re actually _running with it?”_

“Uh, yes,” Ollie says, leaning back in his seat as if he’s afraid the computer might actually explode. “They’re running with it like Usain Bolt during a relay race, Nicola, they’ve got details in here about Jamie coming in, about the recent PR push--”

“Oh Jesus,” Nicola says, and they all circle around Ollie’s computer screen, everyone reading silently.

“Well,” Glenn says, sounding rather gobsmacked, although not nearly as much as Nicola feels right now, “--they’re um, they’re certainly flattering about it. That’s good then, isn’t it?”

“No,” Nicola says, turning on him, spitting out, “No, Glenn, it is not in fact good. Jesus Christ, it’s not good at all, it’s a total disaster!” Oh God, oh God, the way the papers have spun it, it _does_ all look deliberate, like Nicola’s been grooming herself as a dark-horse challenger to Tom all along, and this is just the final step in some grand plan of unseating the PM and taking over the party.

Nicola’s not a fool either, she knows this current flurry of speculation isn’t really about if she would make a better leader for the party than Tom, it’s about how Tom is apparently so weak and ineffectual that anyone would be a better option, even someone as relatively new on the scene as Nicola. It’s about how there’s apparently mutiny within the party, and with her and Jamie as the fucking ringleaders.

In other words, Nicola, through some creative editing from the BBC and one tiny slip-up from her, has become just enough of a credible threat to the PM to have everyone in the party now gunning for her.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The only thing worse than this, Nicola thinks to herself, as she glances up at a furiously gesticulating Malcolm, still shouting away on his Blackberry, is thinking about what Malcolm’s reaction will be.

While she’s thinking this, Ben, apparently bored of sitting in his seat and whining, has taken to chortling at some of the unkind comments on the Guardian’s politics live-blog, the little shit. Nicola confronts him about it, her gaze on the Blackberry in his hand--yeah, she’s got a pretty good idea where some of those comments are coming from, bastard.

“Why are you doing this?” Nicola asks at last, aware that they’ve got an audience, everyone now staring at them, and in the grand scheme of things, not being able to give much of a damn about it.

“Because I’m bored, it’s funny, and I hate you,” Ben declares, and Nicola is hit with a wave of not just anger, but _revulsion_.

“Oh, fuck off, you pathetic little tit,” Nicola says in disgust. Ben actually looks startled to hear Nicola standing up for herself, and Nicola’s anger, at Ben, at the press, at the entire miserable fucking day boils over. “Seriously, _fuck off_. If you can’t get over the fact that I didn’t want to hire you, then you can just stand there and pout like the spoiled little boy you apparently are. Just shut the fuck up while you’re doing it, because nobody here is listening to you, and I’ve got bigger problems today than dealing with a fucking overgrown man-child.”

The silence once she’s done talking is almost deafening, and Nicola turns away from a red-faced Ben to see nearly the entire room watching her with wide eyes. “Don’t you all have work you could be doing?” Nicola asks, voice still sharp, and everyone gets very busy in a hurry.

Nicola starts to head off to her office once again--surely it’s all right if she just locks the door, crawls under her desk and pretends the world doesn’t exist--but Malcolm bursts back in the way he always does, gathering them all up to deliver his new mandates, and even if it’s rather fun watching Malcolm make Ben stand in the corner like a naughty, misbehaving child, Nicola’s starting to feel genuinely concerned at how...off the rails Malcolm seems today. Sure, it’s nothing new to hear Malcolm threaten to wear someone’s organs as cufflinks, but he’s usually not so visibly unhinged while doing it.

And then, as if things could hardly get any worse, Terri pipes in with how the Daily Mail and the fucking Sun have both endorsed Nicola’s leadership bid, thanks to her apparent stand against the BBC’s shoddy journalism, and shitting fucking fish and chips, no fucking wonder George Alagiah’s lurking outside if this is what’s going around in the press.

“Malcolm,” Nicola says, urgently, “Malcolm, what the fuck do we do now? Hello, say something, for Christ’s sake--”

Instead of answering her, Malcolm answers his Blackberry. Fucking fantastic. He comes back a few minutes later, when Nicola’s idly wondering if she could get away with kicking Ben in the bum at least once, just to see him jump.

Malcolm comes back bearing the news that the PM is livid with her, angry as a dickless dog apparently, and that’s just the shit cherry on the shit fucking sundae that is today. Nicola’s private opinion of Tom as a PM isn’t very high, which puts her in common with a large majority of the British people, but no amount of polling will help Nicola if the PM decides to seek his revenge on her for this entire mess.

"Here's what we're going to do, all right?" Malcolm says, emphatic as ever, and Nicola listens, because she doesn't have any better ideas, and because despite whatever's going on with him today, it's Malcolm, and Nicola has to trust him. Even when she possibly shouldn't, and that's something to worry about later.

Now though, right now Nicola has to worry about getting through the press to the car, about publicly backing the PM and not somehow screwing up along the way--but that gets Nicola thinking about what could go wrong, if she trips over her words or falls on the pavement or flashes the camera with her knickers as she gets into the car...

Nicola is in the midst of a horrible vision of George Alagiah solemnly commenting on the significance of her green knickers, when Terri comes down the stairs after her. Terri starts talking but it's white noise in Nicola's ears, her hands turning clammy where she's gripping the railing, until she finally has to stop in her tracks, her knees locking up.

"This isn't a good idea, is it?" Nicola asks Terri. "Me going out in front of the press like this. It's not a good idea at all."

"It's...not the route I would've gone, no," Terri says carefully. "But look, Nicola, you will be fine. Go out there, say what you need to say, and everything will blow over. It will."

But that depends on Nicola doing what she has to do, and right now, she's in the grip of the sort of panic attack she hasn't had in ages, since before Jamie came on the scene, with his rants and his paper clips and his...

"Paper clip," Nicola gasps out. "I need, I, my fucking paper clip, where is it?"

Jamie's always got one on him, tucked into his pocket, but Terri clearly doesn't and fuck fuck fuck, Nicola knows it's just a mental trick, she knows that, she knows she's fucked right now, she's so fucked, everything's going wrong just like she was afraid it would, just like she _knew_ it would...

"Nicola?" Terri prods, looking at her with real alarm. "Nicola, look, let's get you back upstairs, we can hold this off--"

"No," Nicola says, faintly. "No, it's...we go back upstairs, Malcolm will just throw me back out again. No, I should go. I should go."

And so she goes, down the stairs, through the door and into the sound and fury of a press scrum, flashbulbs going off, so many shouted questions she can't keep them all straight, everyone pressing in on her and Nicola can't breathe, her hands are empty and her mind is a tortured blank.

"What the fuck did I even say to them," Nicola asks Terri later, after Terri has dragged Nicola back out from the safety of the car. "I said what I should've, didn't I?"

No. No she hadn't. One tiny switch of words, and she’s more fucked than one of those skinny models in that show _Skins_ that Katie loves so much, as Malcolm takes extra care to point out.

“Oh, fuck you Malcolm,” Nicola spits out as soon as he’s done detailing just what he’d like to do with her entrails. She storms off into her office to hide under her desk, just like she should’ve done the minute the BBC put that damned interview up on their website, but Malcolm follows her, still shouting, and at her wits’ end, Nicola shuts the door behind them and starts shouting right back.

“Do not _start_ with me, you bastard, do not,” Nicola says, and has the pleasure of seeing Malcolm actually silent for one second. Her own disappointment and embarrassment fueling her on, Nicola snaps at him, “This entire fucking mess could’ve been avoided if you were at all capable of doing your job today--”

“ _My_ job!” Malcolm says in disbelief, hands on his chest. “My job, sweetheart, is to clean up the fucking mess you’ve made, and it’s not my fucking fault if you keep on spewing garbage in front of the press every six fucking seconds--”

“That’s fucking rich,” Nicola says, “That’s great, Malcolm, and whose fucking idea was it to send me out in front of the press just now? Whose idea was it that led to this entire thing blowing up until it turned into a fucking crisis? Not me, I can tell you that much!”

She’s practically nose to nose with Malcolm now, Malcolm glaring down at her, doing his best serial killer eyes, but Nicola’s entire body is thrumming with adrenaline, and so she sets her jaw and glares right back, until--

The loud ringtone of Malcolm’s blackberry goes off, and Nicola groans, stepping back. “Yes, yes, go ahead and answer it, it’s about all you’ve been successful at today,” she snipes, and Malcolm snaps right back, “Fuck yourself with a broom handle, you fucking sour-faced twat.”

He storms out to take the call, and Nicola collapses right back into her chair, rubbing at her aching temples.

When there’s a tentative knock on the door, Nicola doesn’t even bother raising her head, just says, “Yes, what else has gone wrong now?”

“Er,” and it’s Terri’s voice, “Sorry to interrupt, Nicola, but it’s your mother-in-law on the phone, did you want to take the call?”

Oh, that’s exactly what Nicola needs right now. “No,” she says sharply. “No, absolutely not, just--just ignore that, all right Terri?”

“Will do,” Terri says promptly, hitting the button on her phone. Instead of scurrying off, though, she visibly hesitates, before saying, “Nicola--I must say, I was expecting Jamie to storm in by this point. Is he ill? Has he...died?”

Nicola holds back a grim laugh, but barely. “No,” she says, rueful. “No, Jamie is currently holed up in his flat, being kept away from any electronics that might aggravate his concussion symptoms. At least, that’s what Sam told me. She’s keeping an eye on him today, making sure he doesn’t sneak off to the loo to use his Blackberry or anything.”

“Ahh,” Terri says. “Well, that explains it then. Are he and Sam, are they a--"

“I didn’t ask,” Nicola says, which is technically true. She hadn’t needed to, Sam had volunteered that she and Jamie were a couple a while back, asking for Nicola’s discretion, which Nicola was all too happy to provide. “But frankly, I’m glad Jamie has no idea what’s going on, I’m pretty sure he’d have an apoplexy.”

“Malcolm’s not too far off one, from the look of things,” Terri says, taking a seat opposite Nicola’s desk.

Nicola makes a noise of disgust, before finally asking, “Terri, what the hell is going on with Malcolm today?”

Terri makes a show of glancing around, never mind that the door is closed, for all that the walls are glass, and says, leaning in, “If you ask me, it’s having Steve Fleming on the scene. Number 10 seems...very unsettled, these days.”

It’s nothing Nicola hasn’t been contemplating before, but it still makes her stomach sink, hearing someone else confirm her suspicions. “Christ, and now this mess,” Nicola says, gesturing at the window, where the reporters are still lurking, and outside the office, where everyone’s still frozen, hoping for someone to come in with a plan. “I’m completely fucked, aren’t I?”

“Well, if it helps, it’s not just you,” Terri says, and at the look on Nicola’s face, says, “I’d think Jamie’s right in the muck with you, isn’t he? More so even, everyone knows that he’s not a fan of Tom and never has been. And seeing as Malcolm’s the one who brought Jamie in--”

“Wait,” Nicola says, growing cold. “Wait, but--but I was the one who hired him.”

“On Malcolm’s say-so, Nicola,” Terri says, patient. “Everyone knows that, and everyone is going to blame him for today, along with Jamie, and along with you.”

Nicola says, after one horrified second, “So we’re all in the shit, then.”

It’s a measure of how deeply, deeply fucked Nicola is that Terri doesn’t flinch at the profanity. “Basically, yeah. Pretty much.”

“Wonderful,” Nicola says, wishing that when she’d gotten into politics, she’d developed the habit of carrying a flask with her.

*

The hilarious thing is that in the midst of this ghastly business, Nicola still has the Fourth Sector launch to deal with. It's a stupid policy, but it's got to be done and she's the one who has to do it.

So she holes up in her office, ignoring whatever else is going on outside in the department, and writes out her speech, ignoring the headache that's reappeared at her temples, and the pit that's opened up in her stomach.

The speech isn’t great once she’s finished with it, but it’s workable enough, and Nicola emerges from her office with her notes, clutching her paper clip, only to find that while she was in her office, the entire launch has been snatched right out from under her.

“Ben?” Nicola echoes, disbelieving. “You want _Ben_ to do the launch? Oh, like fuck he is.”

A part of Nicola knows she should be jumping at this chance, that she should shove the entire mess onto Ben’s shoulders and run for it, but that tiny, rational part is being drowned out by a wave of frustration.

“Nicola--” Malcolm begins, but frankly, Nicola’s heard enough from Malcolm Tucker today, and she cuts him off with, “It’s my department, Malcolm, and if there’s a mess here I'll clean it up, not this...beige Teletubby.”

“Oi!” Ben cuts in, but nobody’s paying much attention, as Malcolm steps toward Nicola and says, “Yes, yes, that’s all very fucking admirable, sweetheart, but you’re going to let Ben do this, you’re going to let the heat cool off--”

“It’s not going to cool off, Malcolm, this is just going to make things worse!” Nicola says, unable to believe that Malcolm, of all people, can’t somehow see what’s so obvious. “You put Ben out there, and it looks even more like we’ve got something to hide--”

“We do have something to hide!” Malcolm shouts back. “We’ve got you and your dribbling, and there’s no way--”

And that’s when Terri comes in to break them up. Terri, who never does anything but the bare minimum, Terri is the one to physically come between Nicola and Malcolm, holding her hands up and saying, “Just let me try and communicate here.”

Baffled, Nicola steps back just to see what exactly Terri is going to do--and what that is, as it turns out, is standing face to face with Malcolm Tucker and telling him, in plain English, the myriad ways in which today’s fuckups have been _all his fault._

Nicola can only watch, mouth agape, as Terri calmly lays it out--Glenn and Ollie are cringing and inching back, waiting for the inevitable explosion from Malcolm, but all Nicola can do is stare, because while she’s gotten into it with Malcolm before, that’s always been in private, or mostly in private anyway, and she’s not Terri, Terri who _never_ cares enough about anything to tell anyone how wrong they’re being.

Christ, when Terri decides to give a toss, she clearly goes all in.

“I know that, you know, Steve Fleming’s come back on the scene,” Terri says next, and Nicola freezes to the spot, holy Jesus on a Christmas cracker, Terri’s not going to bring that up, she can’t, not to Malcolm’s _face,_ not in front of _people_. But she is, she is saying it, going on with, “Are you feeling emasculated by that?”

Nicola turns a wild gaze around the room, but yes, this is really and truly happening right now. She’d try and shuffle out of the inevitable blast radius, the way Ollie’s doing now, but it’s all like a trainwreck, she can’t tear her eyes away.

“I think you’re wrong, Malcolm. You’re like a sultana in a salad,” Terri finishes, and for the first time, Nicola really believes that murder’ll be committed at DoSAC, and the amazing thing is that it won’t be Jamie doing it.

After one moment where everyone is either too amazed or fearful to speak, Malcolm finally says, in a voice that wouldn’t be out of place coming from the Grim Reaper, “Terri, can we have a word?”

Oh fuck, it is going to be murder. Out of some twisted sense of responsibility, Nicola tries to step forward, tries to interject with a, “Malcolm, look--”

But Malcolm cuts her off with a hand, stalking out of there with Terri sending alarmed glances towards them all as she follows.

It takes a second, but Nicola finally gets her legs working again, carefully standing behind a partition with an excellent view of...whatever’s about to happen in the conference room. Hopefully not a murder, not when she’s finally starting to like Terri just a little bit.

“He can’t really kill her, right?” Nicola hisses to Glenn, who’s standing next to her. “I mean, it’s not like he’s actually armed, is he?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Glenn mutters back. "If there's anyone who carries a shiv, it'd be Malcolm."

The infuriating thing is that they can’t actually hear whatever it is Malcolm’s saying, although at first it looks like one of his typical bollockings, Malcolm’s face and gestures telegraphing nothing but fury, but then--it gets odd.

Truthfully, Nicola doesn’t know exactly what’s happening in there, but she knows what it isn’t, it’s not Malcolm cutting Terri down to size. If anything, it looks more like Terri trying to talk Malcolm down off the ledge.

Jesus. If Malcolm’s having some kind of, of breakdown right now, if even Malcolm’s starting to fall apart…

Eventually Terri and Malcolm emerge, Malcolm looking somewhat calmer as he calls Nicola to her office, even adding the word please at the end.

Nicola warily follows him in, shutting the door behind her.

Whatever happened in that conference room, Malcolm does seem calmer, asking, “Are you still in a strop then?”

"No," Nicola replies, and she means to leave it there, she really does, but goddammit all to hell, she just can't. "Are you all right?"

Malcolm shoots her an odd sideways sort of glance, before saying, "Are you worrying over me then? Afraid Terri hurt my feelings?" The tone is as mocking as it's ever been, but Nicola just holds her ground and just looks at him, waiting, and Malcolm says finally, "Don't you fret yourself worrying about me. I'm fucking _fine_ , all right?"

_But I am worried_ , Nicola thinks but doesn't say. _I'm worried about all of us_.

Including, she has to admit with chagrin, the infuriating man in front of her.

“Ben’s not going to be able to fix this, you know,” she says at last, and Malcolm, Malcolm just smiles at her, a sort of reckless, all-too-aware smile as he says, “Darling, at this point, I’m just looking for something to stop the bleeding, and Ben’ll have to do as a bandage. He’s the fucking color of one anyway.”

Nicola doesn’t reply, and Malcolm says, more seriously now, “Nicola. Let Ben take the bullet on this one, all right?”

“Okay,” Nicola says finally, pasting a smile on her face. “I’m sure you’re right. Ben can handle the launch.”

*

It’s five minutes past the scheduled start of the Fourth Sector launch, and Nicola is in her office, seemingly twiddling her thumbs to anyone who walks by, but in reality, she is thinking very hard.

Nicola doesn’t think she’s too deluded about herself--she knows she’s not a great politician yet, that her setting is still firmly at “novice”. She’s learning how to do all this, and she wants to keep learning, not to be shuffled off the cabinet and left to rot on the back bench.

Or stuck in some ghastly struggle for power while the government rots on the vine and the press gleefully reports every detail. This leadership story has to be killed, and thoroughly.

After a moment, Nicola gets out of her chair, looks down at the notes for her speech, and carefully rips them into shreds, until they’re nothing but confetti on her desk.

She takes a breath, straightening her shoulders. “Okay,” she murmurs to herself, and then goes off to deliberately set fire to her own political career.

The one saving grace is that, from that point on, she doesn’t have any time to think about what she’s doing, not from that mad dash from her office, everyone on her heels chasing her, to stepping in front of the press, Ben gratefully making way so that Nicola can commit seppuku in front of all those cameras.

Nicola has no notes to guide her, no paper clip in her hand, just herself and her panic and her bone-deep knowledge that this is what she has to do, to make it out of this alive.

So Nicola opens her mouth, and she _babbles_.

There’s a moment during Nicola’s terrible speech, where the nerves and the dismay all coalesce in her stomach to form something that feels something almost like relief--whatever else happens, today’s disaster is about to be settled--and she glances over, just the once, to where Ollie and Glenn are watching her in horror, and her gaze slides over and there's Malcolm, staring at her through the glass wall.

Nicola jerks her gaze away, fixes the no-doubt demented smile on her face even more firmly, and keeps talking.

*

Once it’s done, she totters out of the room on unsteady legs, exhausted and dazed in equal measure. As it turns out, she’s not only sabotaged her own political career, at least in the short term--please God, let it only be in the short-term--but Glenn’s as well. Poor Glenn, she’d forgotten all about his bid to become an MP.

The only person who’s thoroughly pleased by this turn of events is Malcolm, of course. “Nicola, I’ve got to tell you,” he says, gleeful, “--that was one of the best live performances I’ve ever seen.”

Nicola exhales, letting his malevolent joy wash over her, and once he’s done, she says, simply, “Yeah, well, that’s what I thought I’d do. Take the heat off.” Nicola keeps her voice flat as she says it, and she’s looking straight into Malcolm’s face and it’s for a split-second, but Malcolm’s entire face seems to just _shift_ , focusing in on her with that laser precision of his, and it’s--

Nicola’s chest is tight, which makes no sense, no sense at all, she’s not in an elevator or an enclosed space, she’s not still in front of any reporters, she’s not--

“You’re welcome, by the way,” she says, clipped, and looks away from Malcolm’s face to ask Ollie what the press are saying now.

His reaction is...about what she expected, and what she’d planned for. She’d planned for this, and Nicola has to keep reminding herself of that, even though it’s cold comfort right now.

“Right, okay,” Nicola says at last to everyone. “I’m going into my office for a bit. Nobody get me unless the building is on fire. Possibly not even then.”

Safely alone inside her office, Nicola hesitates, then picks up her mobile and calls Sam. “Sam? Yes, it’s Nicola. Look, is Jamie still with you? He’s sleeping? Fantastic. Erm, you wouldn’t happen to have heard about today--oh, you did. Yes. Yes, it’s been quite the disaster. Look, do me a favor, and--just try and make sure Jamie doesn’t hear about it tonight? I’d like to save his meltdown for a day when my head isn’t already banging like a steel drum. Thanks.”

After that painful phone call is over, Nicola looks at her mobile, and then hits dial again.

Malcolm picks up on the second ring. “Don’t tell me you have another surprise in store for us, Murray. You’ve given the hacks enough presents as it is, they’ll get spoiled at the rate you’re going.”

“Right,” Nicola says, grim, “--so I thought about it, and I’ve decided, after the massive fucking favor I just did for you, the very least you could do is buy me enough drinks at the pub to blot out my memory of today. So that’s what you’re doing. You’re buying me all the alcohol in fucking London.”

She can hear the amusement in Malcolm’s voice as he responds, “Well, I don’t know about _all_ the alcohol--but yeah, sure. I’ll get you a drink.”

“Many, many drinks,” Nicola says, and after hanging up, she doesn’t bother to ask herself what she’s doing. She’s already done enough reckless things today, what’s one more to add onto the pile?

*

They don’t go to what Nicola now thinks of as the usual pub, instead finding a place that’s even quieter and more out of the way. Nicola doesn’t argue; the less her chances of seeing any members of the media tonight, the better.

Malcolm looks quite relaxed for the first time all day, tie gone, collar loose and his general stance free and easy. Nicola has always been aware that Malcolm Tucker is an attractive man, at first the knowledge was just there, later it left her discomfited, and tonight it just irritates her. She hadn’t said much on the ride here, and thankfully Malcolm had been on his mobile for most of the drive. But here in the pub, in their quiet, out-of-the-way booth, the silence grates on her. Mostly she wants to fill it up with shouting. Or maybe break it by punching Malcolm on the arm until her anger fades away or until his arm’s black and blue. Whichever comes first, really.

She stays quiet though, biting her tongue and glowering at an unconcerned Malcolm, who just nods his thanks to the barmaid as she stops by with their drinks.

Malcolm waits until she’s pounded back half her mojito before holding up his own pint in a mocking toast. “Here’s to another fucking DoSAC cock-up.”

Nicola’s feeling frayed enough that she doesn’t even think twice about the rude gesture she makes in Malcolm’s direction, and Malcolm lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously close to a chuckle. “Eh, you were due a slip anyway,” he says. “And it’s DoSAC, it’s not like anyone really gives a toss.”

“ _I_ do,” Nicola snaps back at him. “I care, Malcolm. It’s my fucking department, my fucking reputation, and I just set a match to all of it because--” She stops, swallowing back the rest of her words, before sharply waving her hand and returning to her drink.

There’s a slight pause before Malcolm speaks, asking, “Is this about the leadership?”

“Oh fuck off,” Nicola says. “I don’t even want the leadership--that was entirely the press spinning things about, no thanks to you. It’s just that, that I take pride in this job, all right? I know it’s stupid to you, I know no one thinks this department is very important and fine, maybe it isn’t. But it’s still mine, and I work very hard at doing the best I can with it, and I just...I’m not thrilled about deliberately turning myself into a fool to cover up your mistakes.”

Rant finished, Nicola sits back in her chair and moodily sips at her drink.

“Would it help,” Malcolm says slowly, not quite looking at her as he says it, “--if I said your performance tonight was...appreciated.”

Nicola raises an eyebrow, but she knows that might just be the closest she’ll ever get to hearing a thank-you from Malcolm Tucker. So she just settles back against the cushions of the booth and says, “It would help if you got me another drink.”

Malcolm inclines his head, a smile quirking at the edge of his lips. “Now that I can manage.”

*

The funny thing is, Nicola’s fairly sure she’s never seen Malcolm drunk. The few times she’s seen him pick up a glass in a social setting, he only seems to sip at it, nursing one drink for what seems like hours. Not tonight, though, tonight Malcolm matches her drink for drink.

He’s not a loud drunk or an angry drunk, he just seems to get--looser. He sprawls out in his side of the booth, hands moving through the air, his accent rougher than Nicola has ever heard it before, all as he regales Nicola with his rants about the state of the party generally, and the very existence of Steve Fleming more specifically.

It’s...a shockingly attractive look on Malcolm, and Nicola digs her fingernails into her palm under the table as a now-familiar reminder not to let herself get carried away. Except that, as Malcolm rakes one hand through his hair, Nicola realizes that now, with the alcohol in her system and Malcolm sitting right across from her, that reminder isn’t working--

All right...all right, and so what if she wants him? Nicola isn't stupid enough to _try_ anything, Christ, it would be like trying to date a feral attack dog. Maybe she can just, just be aware of it, just enjoy the attraction for what it is.

There's no harm in looking, after all.

Malcolm pauses, the glass halfway to his lips, and cocks his eyebrow at her. “Is there any particular reason you’re staring at me now?”

Please God, let the lighting in here be dim enough to hide her flushed cheeks. Despite that, Nicola answers quite normally with,“I was just wondering how long you could keep ranting without pausing for breath.”

She sees him crack a grin for half a second, and smiles back--it feels strange, teasing Malcolm Tucker in this friendly way, but he hasn’t bitten her head off for it yet. “You’ll give yourself apoplexy, you know,” Nicola tells him, and Malcolm shrugs.

“People have been predicting that for years, hasn’t happened yet, darling.”

Still, Nicola remembers seeing him with Terri earlier, remembers that once Malcolm had finally stopped yelling, his exhaustion was written clear as day all over his face, and so she says more seriously, leaning in, "No, really, Malcolm, I mean it. You've got to--look, perhaps I'm the last person to be giving you advice--"

"Oh, do you think so?" Malcolm says, sarcastic, but Nicola ignores him and forges on.

"--but you know that you can't fix everything, right?" Malcolm just gives her a dark look, and Nicola says hurriedly, "Come on, Malcolm, I know you’ve seen the polls. The party is fucked right now. We're just _fucked_ , that's the long and short of it. People are unemployed and angry, they blame us for the economy, and Tom's been a disaster as PM--"

"Are you trying to get me to slit my wrists?" Malcolm asks, waspish.

"--and you can't fix all of that on your own,” Nicola finishes. “You'll just kill yourself trying."

Malcolm's watching her, eyes hooded so that Nicola can't quite read the expression on his face, and he says, "So what, I should just leave the job to good old Steve, then?"

Nicola shudders, and one of Malcolm's eyebrows goes up as he watches her. "Christ, no. That's my point exactly. If that wanker Steve Fleming's really back for good, then we're going to need you in fighting form to deal with him, aren't we? Not--well, not like you were today."

To her surprise, Malcolm doesn't react to her referencing his meltdown, just leans back in his seat and asks, "Not a fan of Steve, are we?"

"Anyone who's a fan of Steve Fleming," Nicola says flatly, "--is someone who needs their head examined. And then perhaps knocked around a bit until they see sense."

That, finally, gets a real smile out of Malcolm. "Now that," he says, lifting his glass, "--is something I'll drink to."

Nicola rolls her eyes, but she clinks her glass against his anyway. "Okay, I've said my piece and there's an end of it."

"Good," Malcolm says, knocking back the rest of his whiskey.

*

Eventually they have to leave. Nicola's finally hired a live-in nanny, yes, but she still needs to go home before her kids forget what she looks like. Besides, she's had enough mojitos by now that she's on the verge of possibly, just possibly, doing something very stupid. So she calls it a night, and they head out, Malcolm's hand on her elbow all the while, providing support so that she doesn't wobble on her heels.

Once they’re in the car and headed back to Nicola’s home, Nicola lets her head fall back against the headrest, humming along to the Smiths song playing on the radio. Malcolm’s tapping away on his Blackberry, frowning, and Nicola suddenly wants his attention.

"I don't want the leadership, you know," Nicola says to Malcolm, leaning in. "I never have."

"After your performance today, I think we all know that, sweetheart," Malcolm tells her, scoffing, but Nicola isn't put off.

"Do you know that? Do you and Jamie really know that, Malcolm?"

Malcolm leans back and stares at her. "What's this about, Nicola?"

"Why did you send Jamie to me?" Nicola blurts out. "It's obvious you could have a better use for him, and God knows I'm the last man on the totem pole, so...why me?”

"Are you complaining about Jamie now?" Malcolm asks, and Nicola groans, because Malcolm is just deliberately not getting it now.

“Well, why _is_ he working for me, then? There are plenty of ministers with more ambition and pull than me, so, so why? Why pick me for him?"

Malcolm just stares at her, and Nicola huffs. “Forget it. I just--after today, Jamie’ll be on the warpath, and I just, I was curious.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of Morrissey crooning over the speakers.

“Listen,” Malcolm says at last, leaning in. “There’s about a sixty percent chance you won’t remember this come morning, and it won’t hurt if you do fucking remember it, so here goes, all right? What you need to know about Jamie is that he’s got to _believe_ in something. He used to believe in God, when that didn’t work, he believed in me. Right up until he didn’t.”

When he doesn’t continue, Nicola asks, “And now?”

“Now there’s you,” Malcolm says simply. “You’re a mess, sweetheart, most days. But you’re still real.” He looks away, clearing his throat and adds gruffly, “Real enough, anyway.”

“And that’s why you sent him to me,” Nicola says slowly, and Malcolm glances over at her.

“That’s why I sent him to you.”

For perhaps the first time, Nicola can’t quite take the weight of Malcolm’s eyes on her, and so she looks away first, staring out through the window until she’s sure he’s not looking at her anymore.

They don’t speak for the rest of the ride, but as the driver pulls up outside of her house and Nicola moves to get out, Malcolm says, not looking up from his Blackberry, “Drink some water before you fall asleep tonight.”

Nicola turns back to him, surprised. “Yeah,” she says after a moment, not bothering to fight back her small, pleased smile. “I’ll do that.”

Her gait is very nearly steady as she gets out of the car and walks up to her front door, and she doesn’t look back once as she goes.


	6. Chapter Six

The week following the disastrous Fourth Sector launch is a trial, to put it mildly. To put it honestly, it’s fucking torture.

Nicola doesn’t want to read the headlines. She forces herself to anyway, her stomach twisting in humiliation at each disparaging line, before she finally stuffs the lot in the nearest bin. Nicola didn’t have any choice but to make herself look the fool, she knows that, she just wishes to God it hadn’t been so _convincing._

The radio silence from Jamie’s worrying as well. Concussion or no, Nicola can’t imagine he hasn’t heard something by now--unless he’s so disgusted by her performance he’s already shopping his CV around. Fuck.

Finally she gets a text from Jamie that consists of nothing more than _we need to talk. tomorrow._

Nicola sighs as she sets her phone down, and goes off to find herself a drink.

*

On her way up the stairs to her offices the next morning, Nicola runs into an idiot. It’s Richmond Terrace, so that’s nothing new, but this particular idiot smirks at her as she trots up the stairs past him, saying, “Morning, Minister. Plan on eating any cakes today?”

Nicola stops mid-step, turns and stares at him, levelly, long enough that the idiot--his name is Something Wells, he works for Markham in Works and Pensions--starts to look awkward, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His skin is shallow and his suit is far too big for him, and he’s got the sort of smug blankness to his face Nicola sees far too much of in government these days.

“I’m sorry,” Nicola says, “--did you say something? Care to repeat it again?”

Idiot Wells’ gaze gets shifty, looking about like he’s needing a rescue from the mess he’s stepped into. “Just a bit of fun--” he mumbles, and Nicola pounces.

“Right,” she says, letting her voice drip with sarcasm. “And you thought you could have it at my expense and to my face, then? Maybe when you’re not currently working for a minister who’s on his third divorce and fourth mistress, not to mention that nasty spot of embezzling back in the 90s, then, perhaps, you can have your bit of fun. Until then, kindly go and drown yourself in a toilet, would you?”

She turns around and heads up without waiting for a reply, anger fueling her on until she’s striding into her own department, shoulders square and her pace quick. No more of this skulking about, it’s her fucking department, she’s the fucking Minister of Social Affairs and Citizenship, and Nicola will be damned if some idiot junior adviser in a cheap knockoff suit will try and make her feel small.

Her confidence lasts for exactly three minutes, right until she sees Jamie pacing in front of her office, practically crackling with barely-restrained energy. He’s surrounded by a very alarmed trio of Ollie, Glenn, and Terri, all of whom look to be heartily wishing they were anywhere else on the planet right now

“Shit,” Nicola says, out loud.

Jamie’s head jerks up at the sound of her voice, but to Nicola’s surprise, he doesn’t actually say anything at first, just glares at her, face red, mouth compressed with all the expletives she’s sure he’s dying to utter.

Nicola takes a breath, and exhales loudly. “Hello, Jamie. Feeling better then?”

The noise Jamie makes at this sounds like a cat being strangled. “Office,” he finally rasps out. “Now, please.”

He stalks in without a second look at any of them, and Nicola looks at the rest of her staff. “Jesus Christ, he’s going to kill me,” she says, faintly.

“You’re well out of it,” Glenn responds, looking rather green. “He can’t kill you, you’re his boss. He’ll just murder the rest of us.”

Jamie’s gone back to pacing when they finally get inside, a hand fisted in his curls like he really will yank his hair out from fury. “Right, so, my original plan was to chop the lot of you into bits and leave your scattered body parts around this building as a warning, but Sam’s reminded me that _you_ \--” he points at Nicola, “--are actually my boss, so it might be a good plan if I got your permission first to give you the bollocking of your life.”

Nicola sighs. “That’s fine, Jamie, just get it out--”

“What in fuck’s name were you thinking?” Jamie howls, banging his hand against the nearest chair, and really, Nicola’s just lucky he hasn’t taken to flinging the chair about. Yet. “The plan was to _bury_ this Fourth Sector bullshit, not blow it up like fucking Hiroshima!”

“I know--”

Jamie’s well past listening however, as he barrels on, shouting, “And where, _where_ was your fucking paper clip, eh? Where was it? Did Ollie nick it and shove it down his trousers, like the fucking kleptomaniac he is?”

“Hey,” Ollie feebly protests, and quails when Jamie turns on him.

“You, fucking shut it before I rip your head off and use it as a football for five-a-side,” Jamie spits at him. “Don’t think I don’t know who took my fucking packet of fucking crisps out of my desk drawer, and believe me, my vengeance will be swift as all fuck, just you wait.”

"That wasn't me, that was Ben Swain! And I _told_ him not to touch your things,” Ollie whines, to which Jamie replies, invading Ollie’s space until they’re practically nose to nose, “I’ll hire an army of Nurse Ratcheds to give you a sponge bath with the business side of a porcupine, you daft fuck.”

As much enjoyment as Nicola normally gets out of seeing Jamie make Ollie squirm, they do have more important things to discuss here. “Jamie,” Nicola says, and Jamie turns back to her, wild-eyed, and they just stare at each other for the longest time before Jamie lets his shoulders slump, like all the air’s left his body.

“I know you imploded on purpose,” Jamie says, and Nicola ignores the startled looks from Glenn and Ollie, who clearly hadn’t figured this out. “What I can’t fucking figure out is why.”

Nicola sighs, and turns to the rest of her staff. “Can we have the room, please?”

“Right,” Terri says, “I think we’ll just, um, leave you two alone for a bit.” She ushers Glenn and Ollie out, both of them looking at her like they’ve never seen her before. Nicola ignores it, and the second everyone else leaves, she looks at Jamie and says, level, “Can I tell you what happened, or do you still need to keep shouting?”

“I’m making no promises,” Jamie says darkly, sitting on the edge of her desk. Nicola can only hope he won’t start throwing things around by the time she’s done.

She doesn’t leave anything out, outlining that entire day from the beginning, from the BBC interview, to Malcolm storming in, and finally to Nicola’s disaster of a speech. Jamie doesn’t stay still for this retelling, he paces back and forth, grimaces whenever Malcolm’s name comes up, gestures violently when Nicola gets to a particularly bad bit--but miraculously stays silent until Nicola’s finished.

“You’ve got a fucking gift for disaster,” Jamie says once she’s done, shaking his head. “I thought I was good, but you? Fucking genius, Stephen Hawking levels right there.”

Nicola inhales, and gets out the question she’s been meaning to ask all morning. “I know this wasn’t what you had in mind, when you signed on,” she says. “If you want to resign--”

To her surprise, Jamie scoffs. “And do what? I burned all my bridges with this government ages ago, and PR work outside of politics bores me to no fucking end.” He scowls at her. “Besides, I’m not half done with you yet. You’ll turn into a decent politician if it kills us both.”

Nicola tries to fight it off, but a smile keeps stealing onto her face. “Well,” she says, sighing with relief, “--that’s excellent to hear, Jamie, thank--”

“Don’t get soft on me,” Jamie says, flapping his hand at her. “Let’s get started on fixing the mess you’ve made of things, all right?”

“How?” Nicola asks. “Jamie, if you’ve seen the papers--”

“Oh, I’ve seen them,” Jamie says. “I’ve seen them, I’ve set fire to them, and then I poured industrial-strength acid over the ashes. Christ alive, did you _have_ to be so good at making yourself look the damn fool?”

Nicola sighs. “It’s a gift. And I had to, Jamie, you must see that.”

Jamie gives her an odd glance. “Yeah, about that. Tell me something, why’d you do it?”

Nicola blinks, nonplussed. “Why--it was the only option, Jamie, I’ve told you already. Otherwise the PM and his lot would’ve been after us like hounds--”

“Us?” Jamie repeats, pouncing on the word. “And who, exactly, is us?”

“Us--you, me, Malcolm--”

“Malcolm,” Jamie spits out. “Fuck me, I knew it.”

Nicola’s face goes hot. “Know what?”

“That you’ve got some deluded sense of loyalty to the bastard. Fucking Christ, I fucking well knew it.”

Nicola holds herself still, trying not to seize up with tension--or slump with relief. “So what if I have?”

Jamie stares at her like she’s mad. “So what? The second it suits him, he’ll throw you to the wolves and bury your mangled corpse afterwards, _that’s_ what. He’s got no loyalty to you, love, he never will, and it’s a waste of your time giving him any of yours.”

Nicola doesn’t respond, and Jamie steps forward, eyes boring into her face like he’s willing his words to sink into her skull. “Your only job right now is looking after yourself, so fuck the Party, and _fuck_ Malcolm fucking Tucker. Right?”

“Yeah,” Nicola says after a moment. “Yeah, I hear you.”

*

All things considered, Nicola is not expecting the invitation from Clare Ballentine to dinner. She accepts it, of course, but Nicola’s fully aware that she’s radioactive right now so far as the Party’s concerned, and while she and Clare are friendly, they’re not that close.

So Nicola walks into the restaurant--a high-profile one, with plenty of MPs and government officials in evidence--wary and hopeful in equal measure.

She’d have expected Clare to reserve a table out of the way, but they’re right at the heart of the restaurant, with Clare smiling as Nicola approaches, standing up and saying in a voice that seems to carry, “Nicola, there you are, how are you?”

Nicola puts a smile on her face as she greets Clare--she can see the senior minister from Transport gawking at them--and takes a seat. “Thanks for inviting me out,” she says as the waiter comes by to fill their water glasses. “I was a little surprised by your invitation--but pleased,” she hastily adds as Clare raises an eyebrow at her.

Clare smiles a little at this, but doesn’t say anything until the waiter leaves, then she sets down her menu and asks, “So what happened?” When Nicola stares at her, she adds, a little impatient, “The launch. What on earth happened there, Nicola?”

“Right,” Nicola says. “That.”

Clare raises her eyebrows and waits, and Nicola...she just wants someone outside her staff to recognize what she actually did. “I did it on purpose. Imploding like that in front of the cameras--it was deliberate.”

Clare, to Nicola’s everlasting surprise, just snorts. “Well, of course it was. Self-eating cake, my God.”

Something in Clare’s dismissive tone, the way she utters the words “self-eating cake”--it suddenly puts everything in a new, far more hilarious light, and Nicola starts giggling before she can help herself, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Clare watches her in amusement, and once Nicola’s finally brought the giggles under control, she breaks down the story for Clare. Clare listens with very little comment, and when Nicola’s done, smirks and says, “I’ll say this about you, Nicola, you definitely aren’t dull.”

“Thank you,” Nicola replies, wry. “Glad I can be a source of entertainment.”

“Hell of a way to get out of being Leader,” Clare observes.

“Well, I didn’t want to be Leader,” Nicola says. “Especially not now, holy Christ.”

Clare hmms, seemingly in agreement, but then asks, “Not ever, then?”

“Not ever,” Nicola confirms, before asking, “Why?”

Clare gives her a Sphinx-like smile. “Curiosity.”

Nicola doubts that--she’s become adept at recognizing when a person is plotting something in their head, but she holds her tongue.

After that lunch with Clare, Nicola notices more people have started saying hello to her in the hallways again.

*

“Keep your head down,” Jamie counseled her, and Nicola does. She deals with the votes in Parliament, budget meetings, policy meetings--and it’s genuinely a relief in some ways, doing the parts of her job she understands, the parts of her job she’s good at.

She heads out to meet her constituents one week, looking to shake some hands, “kiss some fat babies,” as Glenn puts it the day she leaves.

Nicola knows politicians who avoid their constituents as much as humanly possible--she’s gathered that her predecessor, Hugh Abbott was one of them--but Nicola doesn’t share that attitude. Cliched though it might be, she’d gotten into politics to help people, and she still cherishes the parts of her job that are at least somewhat connected to that ideal.

Even when it mean talking to an irate man whose dead mum keeps getting sent parking tickets.

“Is this where my taxes go?” Mark McGovern demands, glaring beneath his bushy eyebrows.

Alisha, her intern for the day, is getting a slightly panicked look around her eyes, but Nicola knows how this goes from previous campaigns--some people just need to vent, and so long as you can make them feel like they’re being heard, they’re easy enough to deal with.

So she tells Mark to take a seat, sits across from him and makes sympathetic noises, and she makes sure not to glance at her watch.

It works well enough, right up until Mark says, “She’s been dead a year and every time I get one of these damned tickets, it’s hitting me all over again.”

The words penetrate Nicola’s head like nothing else had, and suddenly she’s flashing back to the first month after James’ death, picking up the phone to call him on automatic, right before realizing there wasn’t a phone to call anymore, no James to answer on the other line, and how the shock of it would hit her, every time. She hadn't loved him by the end, but the shock was there all the same.

Quietly, and with shame, Nicola says, “I am sorry, Mark. That’s hard, I know, and you’re right, it’s not fair at all.” Determined to do better, Nicola asks next, “And they’ve told you there’s nothing to be done?”

“No,” Mark says, aggrieved. “I keep going to the courts to get the tickets overturned, and they keep saying it must be some damned glitch in the system. One idiot at the police station even told me there must be someone else with her name, which is completely daft--who else out there could possible have the name Aethelred?”

Nicola stares at him. “Wait. Your mother’s name was Aethelred?” At Mark’s sharp nod, Nicola asks, baffled, “And they said there could be someone else in the neighborhood with a name like Aethelred McGovern?”

Mark nods again. “Daft bastards, the lot of them.”

Nicola’s silent for a moment, then asks, “Mark, you don’t happen to have the tickets with you, do you?”

Mark does have them, it turns out, and Nicola looks them over before asking Alisha, who’s been watching in rapt silence, “Do we have a computer here?”

“I’ve got my laptop,” Alisha says, eager, and as she digs it out of her messenger bag, Mark asks, “Have you thought of something then, Minister?”

“It could be nothing,” Nicola says quickly. “Just a thought that we might go and see if those tickets have all been issued in the same area.”

The three of them end up clustered around Alisha’s Macbook--Nicola makes a note to ask Alisha about it later, Katie’s been asking to get one like that--with Nicola reading off the addresses while Alisha types them into Google Maps.

The first ticket offers no clues, the closest thing there is a local Tesco’s. The second and third are a set of boutiques that Nicola’s daughters enjoy shopping at. The fourth, though--

“Tattoo parlour,” Nicola says, trying not to give anything away, but she’s starting to get an idea of what possibly is going on here, and she doesn’t think Mark will like it. And sure enough, Nicola’s suspicions are only confirmed once they pull up another parking ticket, accrued in front of a shop called--

“ _Bondesque?_ ” Nicola reads off. “What’s that, then?”

Alisha reads the Google description doubtfully--“What’s your safeword?”--before she clicks on the link to the store’s website.

They stare in silence, before Nicola manages a quiet, “...oh,” pressing her lips together before she lets an undignified and very un-minister-y giggle escape.

“What in the fucking _fuck_ ,” Mark explodes, face turning a mottled red.

“It’s a sex shop,” Alisha says, quite unnecessarily as they can see all the leather...things being advertised.

Her mirth under control for the moment, Nicola asks delicately, “Mark, there haven’t been any odd bills sent to you, have there? Ones with your mother’s name on them? From credit card companies, perhaps?”

“No,” Mark says distractedly, still staring at the screen, “No, just the tickets--” Then the penny drops, and Mark whirls to stare at her. “You don’t think--”

Nicola nods, sympathetic. “I’m afraid I do. Mark, there’s a good chance we’re looking at a case of identity theft here.”

“Those fucking cunts,” Mark swears, face even redder.

“Yes, yes, they are a bunch of cunts, whoever did this,” she agrees, and next to her, Alisha’s eyes go huge. Clearly she’s never spent much time around Richmond Terrace, but interns probably don’t, it’d knock the idealism out of them in less than an hour. Nicola reaches for her purse, pulling out not just her mobile, but a small notebook and pen. “Here’s what I’d suggest, Mark. I happen to know the chief inspector, very nice man, and if I were you, I’d give him a call to just let him know what’s happened. Feel free to let him know I sent him your way.”

Once she’s finished scribbling the number down, Nicola rips the paper out of her notebook and hands it to Mark, who still looks shell-shocked. “Right,” he says after a second. “The cunts,” he mutters with a dark look at the laptop. “Thanks,” he says as an afterthought. “Thanks, Minister.”

Nicola shakes his hand. “Good luck, Mark.”

Nicola honestly doesn’t expect she’ll hear much more about Mark’s case, except that a week later, a story breaks in the local papers about the police catching a gang of identity thieves whose criminal activities involved stealing the identities of dozens and dozens of elderly people, most of whom are deceased.

The story’s big enough on its own, but once Mark gives an interview in which he praises her to the skies for being the first official to take him seriously, suddenly Nicola’s waking up to the first flattering headlines she’s gotten in God even knows how long.

“Good fucking work,” Jamie tells her in her office, tossing the Daily Mail onto her desk. Nicola smiles at the headline, _Minister Marple Catches Crooks_ , and at the flattering photo of her on the front page, but protests, “I didn’t actually catch anyone, you know.”

Jamie shrugs at this. “Like I give a fuck. Nobody really thinks you’re the next Jessica Fletcher, but if that’s what the papers like to call you, I’ll bring in the fucking typewriter myself if it’ll get us positive coverage. And anyway, you helped the bloke, didn’t you?”

Nicola nods, and Jamie gestures at her. “There you fucking go then.” He pauses then adds, quieter now, “Seriously. Good work there, Minister.”

Once he leaves, Nicola thoughtfully taps the paper, before letting a smile spread across her face.

Things are good after that. Well, they’re good for Nicola personally, but for the Party as a whole--disaster. Nicola hears through the grapevine about Malcolm’s tug of war with the newly-returned Steve Fleming, who is as loathsome as ever. When you add that to their usual issues with their not-so-inspiring PM, who is currently set on finding new and inventive ways to alienate and aggravate every voter in the UK, it seems like--

Nicola steers clear of the mess, keeps her head down, and she lets her guard down. Which turns out to be her latest mistake.

*

She’s in the middle of a meeting about the Healthy Choices campaign when Terri comes in with the message.

“Ella’s school is calling? Did they say why?”

Terri shakes her head as she hands Nicola the message. “They just said they needed to speak to you as soon as possible.”

“Is Ella all right?” Nicola asks, alarm rising, and at Terri’s helpless shrug, mutters, “Fuck,” and heads off to the office, her stomach cold.

It turns out Ella’s fine, physically. As visions of ambulances and A&E rooms recede from Nicola’s panicked mind, the headmistress adds, heavily, “But, Mrs. Murray--we do have a problem.”

Nicola listens, her stomach sinking like an anchor, as the headmistress goes on to explain how her daughter got into a fight at school, breaking another girl’s nose in the process. “Oh God,” she mumbles in horror. “Look, I will be right there, I promise you.”

“Good,” the headmistress says, not even bothering to pretend that she doesn’t need to come straight away. “We’ll see you shortly.”

Nicola spends the entire drive to Ella’s school cursing in her head and under her breath, trying very hard not to panic, and fending off texts from Jamie, who is taking major exception to the idea of Nicola taking a day off work.

_this is going to be a fucking problem,_ his last text reads. Nicola shuts her phone off, muttering, “I know, I know, goddammit, I know.”

Ella’s waiting in a chair right outside the headmistress’ office, her expression both miserable and defiant. Nicola stands in front of her, speechless--she knows that as a mother, she should be giving her daughter the bollocking of her life, but there are eyes on them now, and really, Nicola doesn’t even know where to begin.

“What on earth were you thinking?” she finally demands, and Ella looks away. Frustrated, Nicola starts, “Ella--” but the headmistress is coming out of her office now, and Nicola can’t continue.

The next half-hour is particularly excruciating. The only positive to be taken from it all is that Ella won’t be excluded, and Nicola has to plead for that, her stomach twisting unhappily in embarrassment all the while.

But it works, and her daughter’s school career is saved, if only just.

Nicola exits the building like it’s on fire, Ella in tow, and it’s not until they’re safely in the car on the way home that she trusts herself to speak. “Fighting in school, Ella?”

She sounds harsh and angry, and Ella turns away in her seat, sulky and upset. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

Nicola snorts in disbelief. “Well, that’s not good enough. Ella, talk to me.”

“You don’t care what I’ve got to say,” Ella insists. “You never do.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“It’s what always happens! Even when you’re home you’re always on your mobile or reading and, and not to be disturbed--”

Nicola holds herself still in her seat, bracing herself against her daughter’s resentment. She’s not blind, she knows that this is at least partly about distracting her from what Ella’s done today. It's also clear that Ella does believe it.

“My mobile’s off,” Nicola tells her daughter evenly. “Right now it’s just you and me, and I still haven’t heard an explanation for your behavior today--”

There’s a knocking sound, and it’s Elvis rapping on the glass divider. Nicola glares, but it does no good, and she lowers the divider with a sharp, “This is really not--”

“Sorry, Minister,” Elvis says, sounding apologetic; he’s holding up his phone. “I have, uh, Jamie here? Says he needs speak to you, will bash my face into steering wheel if I do not get you phone.”

“Unbelievable,” Nicola mutters; she can feel Ella’s judging gaze on her. “Tell him I’ll call back later.”

Elvis is still holding out the phone, and Jamie’s voice is clearly audible, yelling tinnily, “Nicola? Nicola! What’s this I hear about your daughter being expelled, eh?”

Ella shrinks back in her seat and Nicola snatches at the phone. “Jamie, when I say I’m taking the day off, I damned well mean it.” Hanging up on Jamie’s outraged squawks, Nicola hands the phone back to Elvis and says, “Drive us home, please.”

*

“This isn’t a problem,” Nicola insists in her office the next day. “It isn’t.”

“Did you hit your head last night?” Jamie asks. “There must have been a reason you didn’t fucking answer your phone last night, was it a concussion then? Were you seeing stars, maybe, was the fucking room spinning about? Of _course_ this is a problem.”

“Call me crazy,” Nicola says tightly, “--but I doubt the papers are going to care about some idiotic schoolyard fight. It’s a personal matter, they can’t use it.”

“No,” Terri agrees, “--but they’ll use the fact that your daughter isn’t going to her local comprehensive and turn that into the story.”

Nicola glares at this, refusing to be moved. “I still don’t see the problem.”

“They’ll say you didn’t want your daughter going to a state school,” Jamie snaps.

Nicola shrugs, mostly to provoke him, it must be admitted. “They’re right.”

Jamie slams his hand down on the desk, and everyone jumps except for Nicola. “That’s exactly what we _don’t_ want them saying, for fuck’s sake.”

“This isn’t a fucking story,” Nicola snaps right back at him. “Jesus Christ, this isn’t a scandal, I haven’t embezzled or lied to Parliament, I just wanted my daughter to be happy at school.”

“Yes, and that’s worked out,” Ollie mutters from his seat in the corner, then quails at the look on Nicola’s face.

Nicola transfers her glare to Jamie, who’s giving her a pretty impressive one of his own, but fuck that, she’s immune by now. Immune enough to lift her chin at him and say, “My daughter going to a decent school isn’t a crisis, Jamie, and I refuse to treat it as one.”

Nicola counts off in her head to the inevitable yelling; she doesn’t even get to two before Jamie explodes with, “That’s just fucking--”

“Jamie,” Terri cuts in, “--might I, ah, try talking to Nicola for a moment?” Jamie’s face twists, but he gestures at Nicola as if to say, here, you try reasoning with her.

Terri gets both Jamie and Ollie out of Nicola’s office, then settles herself in front of Nicola’s desk, and says, more gently than Nicola would expect from her, “Right, Nicola, what’s really going on here?”

The patronizing tone sets Nicola’s teeth to grinding, and she says, clipped, “Disagreeing with you and Jamie doesn’t mean there’s anything going on. Maybe I just disagree with you.”

Terri just raises her eyebrows, and Nicola can hear Ella’s sullenness in her own voice, and doesn’t like how it sounds. “How are the kids?” Terri tries next.

“They’re fine. Well, Josh asked if his sister will go to jail, Katie’s been giving Ella a massive guilt trip over what this could do to my career if it ends up in the papers, and Ben’s this close to gluing his headphones onto his ears so he won’t have to hear the shouting. But other than that, fine.”

Terri just raises an eyebrow at her, looking utterly content to just sit there and wait her out.

The words stick in Nicola’s throat for only a second before rising up. “I’m all these kids have got,” she says, evenly. “I’m not much, but I am it, and I am doing my absolute best here, and I’ll be damned before I start apologizing for my parenting choices to the fucking cunts at the _Mail_ or the _Guardian_ or who-fucking-ever.”

Terri sighs and nods, before getting out of her chair. “In that case, you’re the one telling Jamie. I don’t particularly feel like being the one to bear the brunt of his wrath today.”

Jamie surprisingly doesn’t shout when Nicola tells him of her decision, just glares at her in a gloomy sort of way and says, sulky, “I think I liked it better when you didn’t have a spine.”

“I’ve always had a spine,” Nicola says to him with a shrug. “I’ve just gotten better at shouting back these days.”

Jamie flaps his hand at her, and says, “We’re still going to need a better line on this than ‘Nicola Murray doesn’t give a fuck’. No offense.”

“I rather like that line,” Nicola says. “It’s pithy. And accurate.”

“Too late,” Glenn calls from his computer. “The _Daily Mail_ has just posted the story on their website. And it’s Marianne Swift writing it.”

“Fucking fuck fuck,” Jamie hisses furiously, while Nicola’s stomach drops down to the vicinity of her feet. Despite her bravado just now, the idea of being in the papers again, of having Ella’s name splashed everywhere--

They all crowd around Glenn’s desk, reading in silence for a moment before Nicola says blankly, “Is that--am I reading this right?”

“Jesus,” Ollie mutters over her shoulder. “It’s actually _kind._ ”

Far from being a hatchet job, the article is kind. It brings up Ella not going to a state school, yes, but puts it in the context of James’ recent death, of Nicola being a good mother who put her child’s welfare over scoring a political point. There’s more than a few swipes at the educational system, true, but it’s far, far better than Nicola could have ever dared to hope for.

“How?” Nicola asks dumbly, turning to Jamie. “Did you--” But even as she asks, she knows the answer’s no judging from the look on his face. “Then who?”

Jamie doesn’t reply for the longest time, scanning the screen before letting out a quiet huff of laughter. “It wasn’t me. You’ll have to look higher up for this.”

It takes Nicola less than a second to parse this.

Well. Looks like Malcolm Tucker knows how to say thank you after all.

*

“So I’m told you’re the person I should be thanking,” Nicola says as she enters Malcolm’s office late that evening. She’d considered not coming at all, had assumed that Malcolm would find his way to her department to crow over his work and browbeat them all, but instead--silence.

And so Nicola had come to him, knowing that despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight, she’d find Malcolm here in his office, pouring over paperwork.

“You should always be thanking me,” Malcolm retorts without looking up. “Build a shrine in my honor, nothing fancy, something the size of the Taj Mahal will do me just fine.”

Nicola smiles a little, even though he’s not looking, and lifts the bag. “Well, it’s not the Taj Mahal, but I do have something for you.”

That finally gets his attention, as Malcolm glances up, looking from the bag to her with a wary eye. “The fuck is that, then?”

His jacket’s off, tie loose around his neck, and he looks far better than he should, given that he’s probably been here for God only knows how long. “Whiskey,” Nicola says as she steps forward, taking the bottle out of the bag. “Very good, rather expensive whiskey.”

She waits for him to take it out from her hand, when he doesn’t, Nicola sets it down on the table. He continues to eye it warily, and Nicola bursts out, “For fuck’s sake, Malcolm, it’s just a bottle of whiskey, it won’t bite you.”

“Might have hemlock in it,” Malcolm mutters.

“Like I’d waste alcohol this good on a poisoning attempt,” Nicola says. “If anything, I’d just lace your satsumas with cyanide.”

That gets her a bark of laughter, Malcolm’s teeth bared in that savage grin of his. He finally picks up the bottle, long fingers wrapped around the neck, and Nicola just--lets herself look at him. It’s all right to just look.

Once Malcolm’s surveyed the bottle to his satisfaction, he tilts his head up and smirks at her. “Weren’t you the one blithering at me a few weeks ago about how I owed you one?”

“You did,” Nicola says. “But this was about my daughter and you helped with that, so. Thank you.”

Malcolm lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “You got us good headlines with those identity thieves, and this was easy enough to handle.”

Nicola wonders if he was glad to help, grateful for an easy win, for something that could be managed with a few phone calls, at least compared to the quagmire the Party’s currently in.

She wonders, but she’s smart enough not to ask.

So with a smile, Nicola drops her gaze and nods at the bottle. “It goes well with cigars. Perhaps by the time you’ve opened it, you’ll have learned not to choke on them.”

She expects a laugh and a sharp retort, but when she looks up again, Nicola finds Malcolm watching her closely. Not sure of what he’s looking for, Nicola offers another brief smile and elects to retreat. “Night, Malcolm.”

She’s already halfway to the door before she hears his reply. “Goodnight, Nicola.”

Once she’s safely outside the door to his office, Nicola takes a breath. She’s decided it’s safe enough to look at Malcolm--well, as safe as anything connected to Malcolm is--but it won’t do to try and wonder about anything else, anything more. No, Malcolm’s like a tiger in a zoo--impressive to look at, but climb into the cage at your own peril.

And Nicola is smart enough not to ever think of climbing into the cage. She has to be.

So she heads home, and carefully does not think about Malcolm Tucker for the rest of the night.


	7. Chapter Seven

“You’re unbelievable,” Nicola says in disbelief, staring at the sight of Jamie MacDonald, in her house, taking off his jacket and looking for all the world like he plans to stay there for a while. “What do you even think you’re doing here?”

“Making sure you’re presentable for this dinner party Ballentine’s throwing,” Jamie says, “I told you I was coming round, don’t make that face at me.”

“I thought you were _joking_ ,” Nicola insists, still gobsmacked.

“Oh, I never joke about dinner parties,” Jamie tells her, then squints, looking at her in her robe, wet hair wrapped in a towel. “So what are you doing with your hair, then?”

“Oh my God,” Nicola says, and then walks off, knowing despite herself that Jamie is going to follow, and that for reasons beyond understanding, she will not kick him out of her home.

Sure enough, Jamie sticks around, blithely ignoring her sons gazing at him in mute wonder, or Ella’s baffled looks, or Katie asking _sotto voce,_ “Mum, is that the mad Scot you keep yelling at on the phone?”

“One of them,” Nicola says grimly, and stomps off to wrangle her hair into shape.

“This is total bullshit,” she says later, as Jamie is tearing through her wardrobe and making disgusted noises. “If I were a male politician, nobody would care about my appearance at all.”

"Probably not," Jamie says distractedly, handing her a deep blue dress with a wide square neckline. "Try this, then."

"Thank you, Trinny, will Susannah be joining us soon?" Nicola grumbles, but takes the dress from his hand. She wriggles into it while Jamie lectures her from outside the bedroom door, and once she’s decent, Nicola flings the door back open with a sour look, asking, “Do I pass inspection then?”

Jamie, infuriatingly, looks her up from head to toe before saying, “You’ll do. Now for the hair and the face.”

While Nicola wrangles her hair into some semblance of order, she says to Jamie, “You don’t have to do this, you know. I do realize how significant this dinner party is. Clare Ballentine’s looking to gather support, take a run at the leadership--”

Jamie stares at her. “Has she told you that?”

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? And it’s not like I’m blind.” Nicola’s still new at this level of politics, she’s not unaware of that, but she can read the signs as well as anyone, can see the power vacuum looming for them all.

It’s about to be very interesting times for the Party, and Nicola has every intention of swimming. At the very least, she’ll be damned if she sinks.

So she sets herself to taming her hair, getting some makeup on her face and trying to maintain that balance between “zombie” and “clown”, listening with one ear to Jamie’s muttering about the guest list and what it means, what the response will be when the PM’s lot hears of this, what Dan Miller and his gang are up to--

And then he cuts himself off and says, urgently, "But Christ, if Ballentine could actually get the leadership--”

It’s the hope in his voice that has Nicola twisting around in her chair to look at him, before smiling slowly. "I don't know why I keep forgetting that you're an idealist deep, deep down."

Jamie scowls at her like she just insulted his mother. "Oh, shut your face."

Nicola just laughs and turns back to her mirror. "Don't worry, I don't plan on telling anyone. Who'd believe me?"

*

Nicola has been to more dinner parties in her life than she can count, but this ends up being one of those rare dinner parties where she actually enjoys herself. It's a select group of people, Party members of the same bent, same thinking. She talks about the NHS with Matthew Llewyn, junior minister from Health, talks football with Divya Asan from Culture, who happens to be an ardent Chelsea fan and laughs in appreciation when Nicola discusses the war that frequently breaks out among her children when a match is on.

"Katie roots for Arsenal, Ella is a Tottenham fan, Ben insists on rooting for Man United to annoy both his older siblings, and Josh is still young enough that he'll cheer for whoever is winning at the moment."

"And you?" Divya asks in amusement.

"I root for whichever team has the least annoying songs," Nicola says, "--which so far seems to be none of them."

Jamie is off holding court in another corner of the room, and Nicola keeps an eye on him, relieved that it's going well. For all of Jamie's talent at instilling fear wherever he goes, he can be charming when he wants to be. Mostly, Nicola is put in mind of a tiger at the zoo, with everyone crowding around the cage in awe, and all the while hoping not to be bit.

But eventually they do start talking politics, and the brewing drama between Malcolm and Steve Fleming. "So what are the odds of Fleming and Malcolm murdering each other before the year is out?" Niall Graves calls out.

"What on earth makes you think either one of them will last that long," someone calls out, and everyone laughs.

Mostly everyone; Nicola doesn't laugh, and Jamie isn't laughing either. "It's madness having them in the same department, what Tom was thinking is beyond me," Divya says.

"That's your problem," Niall says. "You assume he was thinking. Tom doesn't think things though, he just reacts. And lately he just panics."

Edmund Blake from Transport says, "Christ help us, Tom was supposed to be the safe choice. Steady hands to see us through."

"That was a different time," Clare says, and Nicola takes note of the way everyone turns to her, how she commands attention as though it's her due. "Things change."

Everyone is watching Clare now, in anticipation, and Nicola sees Clare holding that moment in the palm of her hand, considering, and then Clare goes on to speak and they are finally getting to the actual business at hand.

It's late by the time that Nicola and Jamie finally leave Clare's home. Clare sees them out at the door, saying to Nicola, "We'll need to do lunch soon, there's a lot that you and I have to discuss."

Nicola raises an eyebrow but says, "Yes, absolutely."

Clare gives her a brisk smile and turns to Jamie, offering a hand. "I trust you weren't bored tonight?"

Jamie has on his cat-that-devoured-the-canary grin, and says cheerfully, "Not for a second."

Clare snorts, but says, "Well, it's good to have you on board. Both of you," she adds with a nod at Nicola.

In the car, Jamie can barely contain his jubilation. "Fuck me but that was brilliant," he enthuses. "It'll be a long road uphill and we'll be carrying fat primadonnas all the way up but if we can get her as leader of the Party..."

Nicola lets him talk, watching both in amusement and with a sense of wistfulness. She's known for ages now that Jamie won't stay on as her adviser forever, he's too good and too overqualified for it. She's determined to meet that moment gracefully when it comes, for all of the shouting and dramatics, she's all too aware of how much she owes Jamie, all the good he's done for her career.

And after all, Jamie's right. If they could somehow get from the disaster of Tom's stewardship to someone like Clare Ballentine...

"It could be brilliant," Nicola says out loud. "It really could."

*

Of course, if it was as simple as deciding things over one dinner party, the leadership would be a revolving door. For all that Nicola is on the ground floor of a revolt within the heart of the party, she still has a job to do and a department to run.

So she focuses on DoSAC, on the Healthy Choices campaign and she may or may not do a pirouette of delight around her office when they officially land Andy Murray. The blinds are drawn, nobody can prove anything.

The only sour spot is Jamie's bizarre disappearance for the day; he had left an odd message on her phone first thing in the morning about "putting out a fire by pissing on it" and since then, it's been total radio silence.

Nicola leaves yet another message on Jamie's phone--she's currently at three and counting--saying, "Jamie, I thought the only way you wouldn't answer your phone would be if someone was literally holding a gun to the head of your beloved grandmother. Where the hell are you, we've landed Andy fucking Murray and I need you here doing your bloody job. Call me back already, for fuck's sake."

She hangs up in a huff, tossing her phone on the desk as she comes out to Terri trying, futilely, to convince everyone that Paula "Poo" Radcliffe is a better option than Andy Murray, Britain's best shot at winning Wimbledon in decades.

"Yes, but he hasn't won it yet, has he?" Terri asks in triumph. "Are we just going to celebrate people for things they might do eventually down the road?"

"When the other option is celebrating someone who shat in the street, yes, yes I believe we do," Ollie retorts.

Nicola cuts the argument off before it can start up in earnest again. "Terri, we've got Andy Murray, there's an end of it, and you and Paula Radcliffe will just have to deal."

"Shouldn't we run this by Malcolm?" Glenn wonders. "Just to get the official green light, especially with Jamie having gone MIA."

"Isn't he on holiday?" Nicola asks dubiously.

"Yeah, but it's Malcolm. Unless he's actually dead and buried in the ground, he'll answer his Blackberry."

"Fair point," Nicola agrees. While Ollie goes off to make the call, Nicola frowns, thinking it over, and then asks Glenn, "Look, are we sure Malcolm is really on holiday?"

"It's the official word from his assistant and no one has seen him out and about," Glenn points out.

"Still," Nicola says, but doesn't continue further. It just seems bizarre, given the obvious power struggle between Malcolm and Fleming, that Malcolm would choose now of all times to go off on a bloody holiday.

But then that just has Nicola thinking about the rumors that it's Malcolm on his way out, and that is...alarmingly depressing. Nicola's totally ill-advised thing for Malcolm is bad enough, but despite all of Jamie's advice, despite the shit things that he's done to her...she still feels a sense of loyalty to him. A belief that as awful as he can be, he is the best man for his job, especially at this time for the government.

It makes her feel a little ridiculous, and probably makes her naive, and certainly isn't anything she would ever admit to out loud. But there it is.

So even despite the brilliant get of Andy Murray as their spokesman for Nicola's campaign, Nicola is still feeling rather uneasy, and then Steve Fleming appears on the scene like the proverbial thundercloud, and there's nothing but doom on the horizon, as far as the eye can see.

Steve has arrived on the scene, bearing coffee, a demented smile, and an apparent determination to make Nicola's skin crawl, right from that first kiss on the cheek, _ugh_.

Nicola grits her teeth and bears it just as well as she can, except then Steve is smiling fatuously as he asks her staff, "Can we have the room, please?"

And God bless her team, because every one of them, even Ollie, looks at her first with alarm, all of them silently asking, _is this okay with you?_

And it's not, it's absolutely not, except that Nicola has no choice at all to say anything except, "Yes, of course, Steve. Everyone can come back in a moment."

They had damn well better.

As the door closes behind Terri, Nicola sits down at her desk, settling herself, before asking, "So what can I do for you, Steve?"

Steve rocks back on his heels, still watching her with that gleaming, slightly unhinged gaze, saying, "You've done a good job here at DoSAC, Nicola."

"Thank you," Nicola says slowly.

"A very good job. Your department is currently under budget, you're getting us good press and hey, look at that, you've just landed us Britain's biggest tennis player as a spokesperson. Well done, Nicola, you're the belle of the ball."

Nicola has no idea where Steve is going with this. "Well, I've got a good staff."

Steve smiles. Nicola is fairly sure it's meant to be a friendly smile, but she barely restrains herself from shuddering. "You're quite popular these days, I've noticed. Lots of dinner parties, perhaps?"

Ah. There it is.

Nicola puts a smile on her face. "Well, can't be all work and no play, can it now?"

Steve chuckles, and the sound sets Nicola's teeth on edge, but she's not stupid enough to show it. She stays quiet, and keeps the smile on her face as Steve shakes his head, still chuckling, and says, "Oh Nicola. We have been paying attention to you, don't think we haven't. And the PM is impressed, believe you me. He just...wants to make sure you're still a team player, yes?"

Steve waits like he's actually expecting a response to this, so Nicola gives him the only one she can. "...Yes."

"Good," Steve says, voice hearty. "Which brings me to the reason for my visit..."

Fifteen minutes after that, Glenn is asking Nicola in disbelief, "He wants us to publish the crime stats _now?"_

"Oh yes," Nicola says, flashing back to Steve dementedly repeating "now, now, now" like the world's largest, angriest broken toy. "Definitely now."

"But this isn't a priority," Ollie protests, and Nicola turns a dark eye on him.

"Why, thank you for pointing that, Ollie," she says, heavily sarcastic. "I had no idea that this wasn't a priority, given that I have no idea what goes on in my own bloody department. Of _course_ it's not a priority for us. But neither is picking a fight with the PM's new bulldog, especially now of all times, Christ."

That gets their attention, as Glenn and Ollie share a look, and Glenn cautiously asks, "Now? Is, er, something in particular happening, Nicola?"

"Just do what you can with this, all right?" Nicola says, ignoring Glenn's question. "Crime stats from 2004 up to the last quarter."

She heads back to her office, but Glenn follows her in. Nicola raises an eyebrow at him, asking, "What, didn't Steve give you enough paperwork to drown in? You need me to give you more?"

"Not exactly," Glenn says, clearly hesitating, and just as clearly not on his way out of her office. "It's just...we all can't help but notice that Jamie isn't here--"

"He'd better be at the bottom of a damn well if he knows what's good for him," Nicola mutters.

"And I know you're used to relying on him," Glenn doggedly continues. "But I thought I should just say...the rest of us are willing to pick up the slack. If we’re needed."

Nicola pauses. If she's brutally honest, she hasn't relied on Glenn or Ollie since Jamie's arrival, and for good reason. And yet. She considers it for a second, and then sighs. "Shut the door, will you? I'd rather not have this all over the department."

Nicola honestly isn't even quite sure why she's doing this, taking Glenn into her confidence at all--but at least he can probably keep his mouth shut, unlike Ollie or Terri, and Nicola still feels a twinge of guilt when she thinks about his failed MP bid.

"Things are in flux right now," she explains once the door is safely shut. Oh Lord, she sounds like she's in a bad spy movie. "With the PM, the struggle between Malcolm and Steve, everything is just very unsettled."

Glenn snorts. "Christ, you can say that again. It's been madness, watching everyone either jockeying for position or ducking for cover."

Nicola plunges in. "The fact is there are people watching me right now. It's important that things go smoothly. No scandals, no fuck ups. You understand?"

Glenn slowly nods, a spark in his eyes. Instead of showing off with a lot of bluster, he just says simply, "Ballentine, is it?"

It's easy to forget, most of the time, just how long Glenn has been in politics. Nicola doesn't confirm or deny, just says, "No fuckups, okay?"

Glenn smiles as he gets out of his seat. "No disasters on the agenda today, boss."

"Here's hoping," Nicola murmurs as he leaves, knocking on the nearest wood surface. It's probably no use to try, but she'd like to avoid the jinx if she can.

*

It only takes barely even an hour before things start to go wrong. Nicola's in with one of her aides, going over the website for Healthy Choices. "We've got to keep the low-cost recipes front and center on there as well, though," Nicola says, warming up to the conversation. "It's all well and good telling people to stay healthy and eat the right foods, but we've got to reach working families here. I'm talking things that people on a budget can manage, not those expensive, organic, free-range recipes that are worth more than their own weight in gold. Accessible, that's what we want."

Ollie knocks on the door, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "Sorry Minister, can I have a quick word?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Nicola says, waving off her aide. As the aide exists, she asks, "What's going on, has Jamie finally called?"

"No, no, Jamie's still in the air," Ollie says, and Nicola can practically hear Ollie's thoughts, just hear him thinking, and please God, he'll never come down.

He heroically refrains from uttering it aloud, saying instead, "Malcolm's called, it's um, about the Healthy Choices campaign."

Nicola sits back in her chair, suddenly uneasy. "Why? He's already cleared Andy Murray."

"Yes, but now he's...uncleared him. Opaqued him, as it were. Andy Murray, no go."

"For fuck's sake," Nicola finally manages in a strangled voice, once her throat finally starts working again, the ruins of her program all around her. "Why? What _possible_ reason could we have to chuck Andy bloody Murray as our spokesman?"

She's on her feet now, hands planted on her desk, and Ollie is actually leaning back as far as he can go without physically moving his feet. "Thinks it makes us, the Party I mean, look desperate, bringing on a celebrity. Makes us look like a dying government."

"We _are_ a dying government!" Nicola shouts, at her wits' end. "We're in the last stages of the fucking Black Death, we're--" She chokes for a second, too angry for coherence, Ollie watching her warily for the explosion, the hysteria, and the eventual capitulation.

Fuck that. Instead, Nicola puts her shoulders back, and says, with the calm that comes from incandescent rage and a determination not to be fucked over again, "No."

Ollie stares. "No what?"

"We're not chucking Andy Murray."

It's like she brought out a lighter and set the Union Jack on fire, Ollie is that floored. "But, but you can't, you--Malcolm _said_ to--"

"Fuck Malcolm," Nicola says. There's a kind of brilliant detachment happening to her right now, perhaps this is what it feels like to go over the edge at last. Or maybe Malcolm's just pushed her to the point where she's gone stark raving sane, as the saying goes. "Malcolm's gone utterly mad, this makes no sense, and I won't do it."

"But Malcolm's said to chuck him!" Ollie insists, desperate now. "That means we have to chuck him, that's how it works!"

"No," Nicola says again. It's easier to say each time she says it, and she stares out the glass walls of her office, thinking very hard, very quickly. Steve's come back to the department, having taken to harassing poor Glenn at his desk now, about the stupid crime stats, no doubt.

Ollie's voice has a note of hysterical laughter as he says, "Nicola, this is _Malcolm Tucker_ we're talking about. The Scotch menace. You can't just say no to him and have it all work out!"

Nicola turns to him, and she smiles. That seems to unsettle Ollie more than anything else Nicola has said, as he takes a step back, as if whatever madness has overcome her is catching.

"Watch me," Nicola says simply, and walks out the door.

"Steve? Can I have a moment?"

“Certainly, Nicola,” Steve says in a bright tone, giving his best impression of a genial smile. Which, like nearly every expression of Steve’s, is terrifying.

Ollie, who’s right on her heels, utters a faint, “Oh.”

Nicola tosses a look at him over her shoulder, pairing her sweetest smile with her deadliest glare. She hasn’t had the chance to use the combination yet, but from Ollie’s reaction, it works a treat, as he pales and backs away, giving her enough space to do what needs to be done. “It’s about Andy Murray,” Nicola tells Steve as he approaches.

Steve gives a chuckle that sounds like a scratched CD skipping in its player. “Oh, Nicola, I cannot believe the energy being wasted on Andy Murray right now, cannot _believe_ \--”

Nicola swallows her first angry retort, keeps the smile on her face, and she forces herself to gently touch Steve’s arm. It has the intended effect of getting Steve to shut the hell up; it also makes Nicola feel like she’s been dipped in tar. “Steve,” Nicola says, her gaze fixed on Steve’s repugnant face, “--we’re all a team here, right? We’re all here, wanting to be team players. But what _I_ need, right now, to keep this team running smoothly, is for _you_ to tell me that we can have Andy Murray as our spokesperson.”

Steve looks at her, the crooked wheels in his demented brain spinning away, and he says, delicately probing, “And the crime stats?”

“We’ll work all night on them if we have to,” Nicola promises without hesitation, ignoring the frantic hand gestures from Glenn and Ollie, both of them now standing behind Steve, looking equally horrified.

The grin on Steve’s face is that of the Grinch when he’s decided to wreck Christmas for all the Whos in Whoville. “My crime stats, your tennis player. I think it’s a win-win for us both, don’t you agree, Nicola?”

“I do,” Nicola says, smiling broadly back at him.

Steve beams back at her, eyes gleaming, and Nicola won’t back away, she won’t, she won’t. “I _do_ like you, Nicola. So glad we could have this little chat.”

Fuck it, she can lean back. Anything to avoid another bristley kiss to her cheek. Sure enough, Steve goes in for the kiss, and Nicola scoots back quickly enough to offer him her hand instead. “Me too, Steve,” she says, and hopes her smile isn’t looking too pained by this point.

Steve walks off at last, pleased as punch, and Nicola goes to face her two gobsmacked aides. She raises an eyebrow at them both. “Yes?”

Glenn is the first to find his voice. “I thought Ollie told you. I thought you told her,” he says, turning back to Ollie, demanding in increasingly distressed tones, “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell her?”

“I did! I went and told her, and then she went and did _that!”_

“Oh my God,” Glenn says, in blank dismay.

“If you’ve both finished talking about me like I’m not even here,” Nicola says, waspish.

“Nicola,” Glenn says, in a voice that is striving for calm, “--with all due respect, when Malcolm Tucker tells you to do something, you don’t question it, you damn well do it!”

“Tell me how this makes sense then,” Nicola demands, her frustration boiling up to the surface. “Tell me how any of this makes sense, for me or for the party. You can’t, can you!” She glares at him, at Ollie, and asks, “So why should I shoot myself in the foot again just to avoid a bit of yelling?”

Ollie’s mouth works soundlessly, before he yelps, “A _bit of yelling?”_

“Well, it’s not as if he can actually behead me in my own office, can he?” Nicola demands. The eerie calm she’d had earlier is gone now, replaced with a reckless excitement--if she’s going to grab the tiger by the tail, then she might as well do it in style. “He’s not Henry VIII, and I’m certainly not Anne Boleyn.”

“No, because Henry VIII hired someone else to chop off his wife’s head,” Ollie mumbles, cradling his head in his hands. “Malcolm would go ahead and use the ax himself.”

“All right,” Glenn says, with the tone of someone trying to reason with a lunatic, “--so Malcolm can’t in fact physically murder you. At least we think he can’t. He can still lay waste to your political career with one phone call.”

Nicola thinks, very briefly, of pointing out the fact that Malcolm is hardly in a position to wreck anyone’s political career, given the state of his own. She doesn’t.

Instead, with forced patience, Nicola asks, "Glenn, am I or am I not the Secretary for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship?"

"Yes, you are," Glenn admits after a second.

"And am I or am I not your boss?"

"Yes," Glenn says, more promptly this time, but with an air like he's resigned himself to getting hit by the train he can see careening down the tracks.

"Then unless and until any of the former changes, I want you both to do your damned jobs and stop second-guessing my every move."

She stares them both down; it's Glenn that says, appropriately deferential, "Of course, Minister."

"Right away," Ollie chimes in, and Nicola chooses to ignore the startled look on his face.

Nicola exhales, about to make a dignified exit to her office, where she will continue to do her bloody job, and fuck anyone who tries to stop her, except that Terri comes up, and Nicola throws up her hands at the alarmed look on her face. "Jesus fucking Christ," she groans. "What the hell else has gone wrong?"

"It's Jamie," Terri says, "--and Nicola, you'll have to speak to him, I genuinely believe he's gone mad this time."

"He's been practicing for so long, it was inevitable," Ollie says.

Nicola snatches the phone out of Terri's hand, demanding without so much as a hello, "And what the fuck have you been doing all day then?"

"I," Jamie says in a voice that sounds like a wrung-out tea towel, it's that strangled, "--have been pissing out fires in the middle of shitting bumfuck Birmingham--"

"Who or what is in fucking _Birmingham?_ " Nicola demands. "And who the fuck even told you to go there--"

"Your fucking drug-dealing great-aunt is who!" Jamie howls on the other end, and Nicola pulls the phone away from her ear, studying it a moment in silence, Jamie's impassioned voice still ranting away.

"Can someone tell me the process for having someone sectioned under the Mental Health Act?" Nicola asks of no one in particular. "I want it at hand just in case."

Then, taking a deep breath to brace herself, Nicola heads into the breach. The phone back at her ear, Nicola says through the incoherent shouting, "What _fucking great-aunt?"_

There's a muffled crash on the other end, and God, that's just the headline they need, _Minister's Aide Lays Waste To City._ The papers will have a fucking field day.

" _Your_ aunt, Nicola, your great-aunt Sally who has just been arrested for running a fucking massive designer drug operation out of her fucking bakery, and I've spent the entire goddamned fucking day out here in the pits of Birmingham, making sure your name isn't dragged through the goddamned mud by the hacks when they get ahold of--"

"Be a bit difficult for them to manage," Nicola says tartly, "--seeing as I don't have an aunt Sally and never did."

There is a long pause. "You," Jamie eventually starts, and Nicola is afraid he's really choking this time, "--you, you don't fucking--"

"No aunt. No great-aunt either, which I bloody well could've _told_ you had you bothered to answer any of my calls..."

Nicola doesn't bother continuing with more, as the crashing noises on the other end are so loud she's sure Jamie won't be able to hear anything she'd say. "Could someone get Sam Cassidy on the line?" she asks. "After so many years of working for Malcolm, she must have experience translating Lunatic into plain English."

Terri, bless her, immediately goes, "On it," and runs off to get Sam.

Holding her phone away from her ear to save her eardrum, Nicola says, "I'll be in my office, waiting until Jamie becomes coherent again. Or at least until he stops smashing up the city of Birmingham.”

"Perhaps something's gotten into the water," she hears Glenn offer behind her as she goes in. “Or the lemon zinger tea.”

Door safely shut, Nicola puts the phone on speaker and waits for Jamie to stop indiscriminately threatening death and dismemberment, and when that doesn't work--Nicola doesn't have time to wait that long, truthfully—she cuts in, "But who even told you I had a great-aunt? Let alone one that deals drugs in Birmingham?"

"That fucking prick from the PM's office, after I found out about the polling numbers--"

"Wait, wait, what?" Nicola asks, baffled. "What numbers? Jamie, for the love of God, if you don't start talking sense soon--"

"The fucking polling numbers on you! The reason everyone's wanting to write their name down on your dance card! I was discreetly nosing about Number 10, trying to get more information, and it turns out that Tom and his lot have been running secret polls on every cabinet minister, looking to see who's an asset and who's fucking already walking wounded so far as the voters are concerned--"

As it starts to dawn on Nicola what Jamie's saying, she quickly grabs the phone and takes him off speaker. No need to have anyone accidentally overhearing this.

"--and it turns out that so far as the electorate are concerned, you're fucking George Michael and everyone else is that other poor bastard from Wham."

The year Nicola had gone off to university, she'd spent weeks and weeks telling herself she'd failed her exams, trying to prepare herself for the absolute worst. When the results had come in, and it turned out that Nicola had aced her exams after all, had done well enough to get into her first-choice uni as well as any other one she wanted, she'd been in too much shock to even feel any euphoria.

That's about what she's feeling now, except multiplied by a factor of fifty.

"But. _How_."

"People like you," Jamie says. "The public fucking _adores_ you, Nicola, you get top marks when people are asked which politician they can relate to the most, which politician they feel cares about ordinary people like them--"

"Oh my God," Nicola says blankly.

"Exactly! And there's no way this will stay secret for long, hell, Ballentine's probably caught wind of it already, and soon enough the entire fucking government will know, and we want to be fucking ready for when they do, right? We don't need some fucking scandal from some relative from the diseased, rotting branch of the family tree fucking everything up--"

"Except that I don't have a drug dealing great-aunt Sally," Nicola says. "So why would anyone say that I have?"

That sends Jamie off into an incoherent fit of rage all over again, but eventually Nicola coaxes the story out of him, how he’d gotten a call early that morning from someone from the press office, asking about this story in Birmingham of some drug-dealing grandmother with the same last name as Nicola’s maiden name, and if Jamie had any lines to give the press, and that had caused Jamie to go off in a tizzy, scurrying off to Birmingham to control a scandal that actually never existed in the first place.

Someone from the press office…

“Oh God,” Nicola says as the penny drops. “Oh Christ. He got rid of you on purpose.”

“Who?” Jamie shouts into her ear. “I’ll make sure to bring a brick back from this blighted city so I can beat them around the head with it!”

The sheer absurdity of everything that’s happened today is hitting Nicola hard, and she’s now giggling helplessly, covering her mouth so that she can run the chance of having at least some of her staff believing their boss hasn’t totally lost her mind. Once she’s brought herself under control, she explains.

“Fleming. Jamie, Steve Fleming’s been scurrying about this office all fucking day, forcing this stupid crime stats initiative down our throats, making sure I’m still appropriately loyal to the PM--I’d bet my last quid that he had someone in the department concoct the entire story to get you out of the way, make it easier for him to come in and interfere with my department.”

“I take it back,” Jamie says. “A brick’s too fucking good for the bastard, I’m going to rip his head off with my bare hands and eat his brain right in front of his weeping mother!”

As horrifying--and yet weirdly satisfying--as that violent image is, Nicola says, her earlier fit of the giggles having dissipated, “You can’t kill him yet, I’m using him to run interference with Malcolm.”

“Oh fuck me, what’s happened this time?”

“What hasn’t happened today would take far less time to tell you,” Nicola says, wishing she could rub at her eyes without ruining her eye makeup. The last thing she needs now is to walk around the office looking like a raccoon, or one of those anorexic pop stars with their eyes ringed round with too much kohl. “Did you get my message about us getting Andy Murray for Healthy Choices?”

“Yeah, it’s the one piece of good news I’ve heard today,” Jamie says.

“Well, Malcolm’s doing his level best to ruin it, he wants me to chuck Andy Murray because he thinks it makes the government look desperate.” The string of foul obscenities Jamie utters in response to this are both totally unsurprising and quite validating. “Don’t worry, I’m not doing it,” Nicola says once Jamie pauses for breath.

“Too fucking right you’re not,” Jamie snaps. “Look, I’m on my way back now, if Malcolm keeps trying to throw a shit spanner in the works, just put it about that he’s being held hostage by his evil twin or some shit.”

“You’ve been watching Hollyoaks again, haven’t you,” Nicola murmurs.

“Fuck off, I’ll see you in less than two hours.”

Nicola hangs up, and fantasizes briefly about locking her door and doing nothing for the rest of the day but put her feet up and watching nothing but cat videos on YouTube. Katie keeps linking her to them, she’s convinced Nicola needs a bit of stress relief in her life--and God, isn’t that the truth.

But then Terri’s rapping at the door, with Sam standing patiently behind her, and Nicola waves them on in, because as she’d pointed out to Glenn earlier, she’s the Minister for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, and she doesn’t get to take a holiday because the rest of the world’s gone even more fucking mental than usual.

“I’ve brought Sam in to, er, help us firefight this latest Scot drama,” Terri says. “Tried to just telephone but she said she’d come round instead.”

“Thanks for coming, Sam,” Nicola says with a tired smile. “I’m sure you have quite a lot on your plate at the moment, even with Malcolm on holiday. Where is he, anyway?”

“Easter Island, I believe,” Sam says. On the surface, she looks as serene as ever, but Nicola doesn’t think she’s imagining the faint air of tension that hangs about her.

Terri frowns. “I thought he told Ollie he was in Spain.”

“Never mind that,” Nicola says. “Terri, can you please go and coordinate with Andy Murray’s people? And I know you’re a big Radcliffe fan, but do try to keep from offending them, hm? No talking about Grand Slam records or Henman Hill or anything like that.”

As Terri heads off, Sam gives Nicola a small smile. “I’ve heard you have had quite the interesting day.”

“Not as interesting as Jamie’s, I’m afraid,” Nicola says wearily, and fills Sam in on the day’s bizarre developments. Sam listens to it all with the best damned poker face Nicola has ever seen in her life--she should ask Sam to teach a class on it, it’s phenomenal--and at the end of the tale, Sam says, matter-of-fact, “So you want me here to keep Jamie from murdering Steve Fleming and tossing bits of his body in the Thames.”

“In his current state, I think Jamie’d be more likely to toss Fleming’s body bits around on the Parliament floor than in the Thames,” Nicola says. “Bigger show that way.”

“The blood and viscera would really pop against all that green,” Sam says, dry as dust. She catches Nicola’s eye and says, voice mild, “Steve Fleming is getting to be a bit of a problem, isn’t he?”

Sam Cassidy is probably the most competent person Nicola’s ever met, which explains why Malcolm hired her. Right now, Nicola is forcefully reminded of all the reasons that Sam is the sort of person that not only gets hired by Malcolm Tucker, but thrives in that position. “Do I need to worry about you egging Jamie on?” she asks, only a little warily.

Sam actually smiles at her, a wicked sparkle in her eye. “And give you an even bigger mess to clean up? God forbid. I do actually like you, Nicola.”

Nicola feels another fit of the giggles coming on, but bites it back to say, “Well, thank God for that, then.”

Sam watches her, looking pleased with herself, and offers, “So until Jamie gets back and we can talk him down from his murderous ledge, do you want me to help Terri with this Healthy Choices campaign?”

“Oh my God, yes,” Nicola says immediately, without thinking, then winces and backs up. Much as she refuses to back down from her mini revolt against Malcolm’s dictatorship, it’s one thing to defy Malcolm, and another to use his assistant to help pull it off. “That being said, Sam, you should know--”

“Malcolm told you to drop Andy Murray and you refused to do it,” Sam finishes for her. “Oh, believe me, I heard. It’s all right. If Malcolm asks me about it, I’ll say I knew nothing about it at all.”

Nicola’s skeptical. “And he’ll buy that?”

“Not for a second, but he’s hardly about to fire me for it. That’s the nice thing about being totally indispensable, you see.”

Nicola smiles, rueful. “Sounds rather nice.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at her as she gets out of her seat. “From what I’m hearing about your polling numbers, you’ll find out what that feels like soon enough.”

*

When Jamie gets back in from Birmingham at last, Nicola’s plotting ways to snatch Sam out from under Malcolm’s nose and into her own employ. “Maybe I could buy her a car,” Nicola muses to Glenn as they watch Sam coordinate with Terri, smooth and competent and polished as ever. “Do you think she’d leave Malcolm for a car?”

Glenn looks at her as though she’s gone mad. “Nicola, given everything that’s happened today, do you really want to antagonize Malcolm any more than you already have?”

“Eh,” Nicola says with a shrug. “It’s not like he can behead me twice, can he? I’ve only got the one head.”

She shoots a sideways smile at Glenn, who just shakes his head, but Nicola thinks she can see his lips twitching.

And then Jamie appears, stalking into the general area, wild-eyed, hair on end, unnervingly silent. He glares for a bit at everyone indiscriminately, and then demands, voice hoarse, “Someone tell me where Steve Fleming is. Tell me right the fuck now before I come back with a samurai sword and start swinging it about.”

“Nobody is telling you where Steve is,” Nicola says, walking towards him. “At least not until you look a little less likely to do murder.” As she gets closer to Jamie, she peers at the white flecks in his hair and asks, “God, are those...bits of plaster in your hair?” Before Jamie can say anything though, Nicola shakes her head. “No, never mind, whatever havoc you’ve wreaked in Birmingham, I want plausible deniability.”

Jamie glares at her, but in an impersonal way. “I want his head. I _literally_ want his head removed from his body and put in my hands, still gushing blood from the severed arteries. Do you hear me, Nicola? _Severed arteries.”_

Nicola feels the smile coming to her lips, and pulls it back. “Come on, let’s get you into the office, less witnesses to your death threats there.”

Once they’re in her office, Nicola tells Jamie, “You can’t kill Fleming yet. We need him, disgusting toad though he is. But I want a front-row seat to when you do chop off his head, the bastard would keep kissing me on the cheeks today--”

Jamie’s face has gone an alarming shade of red. “He what?”

Discomfited, Nicola says, “You know, that Steve thing he’s always done, where he finds any excuse to touch every woman in the area from the age of twenty and up, but never in a way where you can really call him out--”

“Oh, I know about the Steve thing,” Jamie says, face alight with renewed fury. “I just didn’t think he was stupid enough to pull that bullshit with _you_.” He wheels on Terri, Ollie and Glenn, demanding, “Fuck me, why didn’t you morons stop that balding shithead from fucking feeling up your boss in her own office?”

“Okay, I have seen you manhandling loads of people when you’re in a snit,” Ollie protests, and Jamie snarls back, “Yeah, but it’s not _sexual_ when I do it!”

He glares at all of them, pointing emphatically at each of their faces, snapping out, “The next time Steve Fleming comes in here to fucking manhandle your fucking boss, I expect you three idiots to do more than just stand there with your mouths gaping, just letting him think he can keep getting away with that garbage. Jesus Christ, you might well be brain-dead twats, but there’s no need to go and fucking _confirm_ it for everyone, is there?”

Nicola shares a look with Sam, who thankfully clears her throat, and says, “Jamie? As much as I approve of you getting out your aggressions in ways that don’t involve actual bloodshed--we do have work to do.”

Jamie’s face twists up in a scowl. “All right,” he mutters. “You lot, off with you. Sam, keep an eye on them, make sure they don’t fuck anything up like they normally do.” He points at Nicola. “You and I need to talk.”

Nicola exhales. “Yes, I believe we do.”

Once they’re alone in her office, Nicola takes a deep breath and says, her voice wavering a little, “So the polling numbers, then.”

Jamie’s watching her, having calmed down at last. “Yeah. The polling numbers.”

“Jesus,” Nicola says, a giddy feeling rising up inside of her. “And we’re sure this is legitimate, that these numbers aren’t being run by some morons who can barely count to twenty or, or something?”

“The numbers are real, I’ve seen a copy of them myself,” Jamie says. “Everyone else in this government, the public would buy tickets to watch them be stoned in the streets. You? You, they want to invite round for tea.”

“But the Fourth Sector launch,” Nicola says. “Wasn’t anyone paying attention to that massive clusterfuck?”

Jamie shrugs. “Apparently not as much as we thought. Look, Nicola, these numbers don’t mean people want you as Leader of the Party, yeah? They just mean that people like you. Don’t start measuring drapes for Number 10 just yet.”

Nicola rolls her eyes at this piece of unnecessary advice. “Of course not. Just--okay, so we’ve got these numbers. What the hell do I do with them now?”

“Now you use them as leverage. When this gets out--and it fucking will--everyone’s gonna want a piece of you. But you stay choosy, yeah? And you wait for the right moment. No point in strutting about now, with Tom still holding the reins. Once the general election’s been called, that’s when we move.”

Nicola takes a breath to center herself. “All right. All right, I can do that. I can do this.”

“You fucking _will_ do this,” Jamie insists.

Nicola looks at him, and says after a second. “Thanks for going to Birmingham. Don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly, “it was utter madness, and it could’ve all been avoided had you picked up your bloody Blackberry at all, but--I appreciate the instincts behind it.”

“Like I’m going to let some thug granny trip us up five feet from the finish line,” Jamie scoffs. “We are this close to the damned promised land, darling, and we’re getting across that threshold if I have to drag you in by your feet myself.”

Terri knocks on the door, her mobile in hand. “Sorry to interrupt your, er, meeting, but I’ve got Andy Murray’s people on the phone, they’re a bit confused. Apparently they’ve gotten a call from Malcolm, checking in on whether we’ve canceled Andy Murray or not.”

Jamie immediately starts towards Terri, but Nicola halts him. “No, no, let me,” she says, smiling. Terri looks alarmed, Jamie looks curious, but neither of them actually stop Nicola from taking the phone and saying, in her brightest voice, “Kate? Hi, how are you? Yes, we’re so pleased to have Andy on board--oh, dear. Kate, I’m so sorry for the confusion. No, no, we’d never dream of asking Andy not to do it.”

Terri’s eyes are huge, and Jamie’s starting to grin as they watch her, and Nicola grins back at them, even as she says soothingly, “You see, I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a rather nasty and childish prank. We’ve had to let go a disgruntled ex-staffer very recently, and I’m afraid that this person has taken to these ridiculous prank calls as a way of enacting revenge or something equally ridiculous. Yes, I know, it’s awful. The worst part is that they’re quite good at impressions, I think they were in an acting troupe at university, so they’re able to make themselves sound like various high-ranking people in the government. Like, say, Malcolm Tucker.”

Jamie is rocking back and forth on his heels with utter delight, and Terri looks aghast.

“I know, it’s completely ridiculous. But I assure you, that person you spoke to on the phone was not Malcolm Tucker. You see, the real Malcolm Tucker is on holiday. Yes, Easter Island, I believe. But I am so very sorry for the confusion, and we will be dealing with this culprit, believe me.”

She gets off the phone a few minutes later, and beams at Jamie and Terri. “Well, that’s handled, then.”

“I could fucking kiss you,” Jamie says, in all apparent sincerity. “Big, wet, cinematic kiss. Wouldn’t hold back on the tongue either.”

“We've been over this, Jamie,” Nicola says with a grin, “--you just aren't my type.”

“I’m just...going to go and, um, do something,” Terri says in a faint voice, and quickly scuttles out of the room.

“As fun as that was,” Nicola says after a moment, “Malcolm really is going to murder me when he gets back.”

Jamie chuckles. “Not once we remind him about those polling numbers, he won’t.” He considers and adds, “He might try to maim you. But then, that’s what you’ve got me around for, stop him from doing it.”

“Yes,” Nicola says, smiling. “I suppose I do.”


	8. Chapter Eight

Nicola’s burst of confidence in herself doesn’t take its first dent until the news about the crime stats hit. Two days of relative peace and quiet, and then the latest disaster explodes in her face.

“What do you mean the crime stats are wrong?” Nicola demands of an anxious Ollie, who'd ran down the stairs to meet her at the door, telling her how, despite doing exactly what Steve had told them to do, the crime stats rollout had been fucked up somehow.

But it turns out that when Steve said up to the last quarter, he meant not _including_ the last quarter, and the ensuing drop in crime that they’d published wasn’t actually true. "So now it looks like we've been trying to fix the numbers, is that what you're telling me?"

"Basically," Ollie says. "The thing is, Steve's come round to rip us all new orifices, but this time, Jamie's in the building, and he and Steve--"

"Oh God," Nicola says. "Tell me Jamie hasn't chopped his head off yet."

"Not yet, but that’s only because he didn’t bring his sword today," Ollie says, and Nicola starts taking the stairs two at a time, legs pumping away in her sensible heels, doing her level best to get to Jamie before he commits actual murder.

Thankfully, she gets there before blood is literally spilled, although it’s a close thing--Jamie and Steve Fleming are nearly nose-to-nose, spitting insults at each other.

“Fuck,” Nicola says loudly. Both of them break off to look at her and Jamie is the first to speak, shouting, "This fucking cuntrag is trying to blame us for _his_ fuckup--"

"It is," Steve hisses, as wound up as Nicola has ever seen him before, which is rather terrifying under the circumstances, "It is entirely _your_ fault and _your_ fuckup--"

"Oh, don't you start with that shite--"

"Enough," Nicola cuts in. "If you have both finished shouting at each other like a pair of fishwives, I'd like to actually start dealing with this problem, thank you. Steve, if you’ll join me in my office, please?”

Steve marches straight on in without waiting for Nicola, and Nicola follows him, Jamie behind her, but as soon as she gets to the door, Nicola stops in front, blocking his path. “You aren’t going in there.”

Jamie does an exaggerated double-take, and demands, “I beg your fucking pardon?”

Nicola holds firm. “The state you’re in, you’re going to get yourself fired. Again. I need my adviser around more than I need to see Steve’s oversized head taken off his body.”

Jamie’s face goes through three separate facial expressions and two distinct colors before he barks out, “All right, fine, fine, have it your own fucking way.”

“Thank you,” Nicola says, and once Jamie has backed away from the door enough that she thinks he won’t try to rush his way in at the last moment, she heads in to face the bollocking in store.

It’s every bit as awful as Nicola expected it to be, but Nicola’s not the same minister she was months ago, and Steve Fleming has lost the power to intimidate her.

“Don’t you ever fucking call me sweetheart, and don’t you try and pretend that this mess isn’t on you too, at least a little bit,” Nicola snaps, cutting through Steve’s tirade. “You were the one that showed up and gave us vague, inaccurate directions, and if you didn’t want the figures from the last quarter published, what the fuck were you doing, giving them to us in the first place?”

It’s like winding up a jack-in-the-box and waiting for the explosion--you know it’s coming, but you still jump anyway when it comes. “You dozy mare!” Steve’s face is red, his voice three octaves higher than normal. “You fucking--”

“Temper, temper, Steve,” Nicola says, voice somehow steady in the face of all that unleashed anger. “You’ve really got to get ahold of yourself.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Malcolm says from the doorway. “Last thing we need is him pulling a George Michael and exposing his bit and tackle to the world, might make us go blind.”

Nicola can’t help but stare at Malcolm as he comes in. He looks the same as ever, same cropped haircut, same lean body, but there’s something in his expression--

Steve starts in on him now, but for once, Malcolm doesn’t seem interested, cutting him off with, “Nobody gives a fuck what you think about this crime stats mess, Steve. Nicola, can I have a word?”

For Malcolm, that’s...almost shockingly polite. Especially given the mild tone he delivers it in. Nicola gapes at him before managing to say, “Er, yes. Right.”

Malcolm ushers her out of there, fending off an increasingly agitated Steve as he does. As they exit, Malcolm lightly guiding her along with touches to her shoulders and back, Nicola glances around at her staff, watching them with wide eyes, hoping to telepathically remind them all that if Malcolm does actually try to murder her today, they had damned well better call the police, and to hell with the Party.

And there’s that stupid, ridiculous part of her brain that wants to shiver at Malcolm’s hand resting on her back. Stupid, how utterly stupid to think of this now, of all fucking times, and now here she is, alone in a room with Malcolm Tucker, in the one room in this place that’s got newspapers covering the glass walls, so if Malcolm actually does attempt murder, there won’t be anyone to see it--and _this_ is what leaps into her brain?

The fact that she wants to fuck Malcolm Tucker is totally irrelevant. Nicola tells herself this as a furious reminder, an attempt to scold herself back into sanity.

Irritated with herself, with Malcolm, with the entire fucking absurd situation, Nicola ignores the rattling and shouting outside from Steve--and Jamie too, who’s gotten into the act--to say, not waiting for Malcolm to speak first, “This is about Andy Murray, I take it?”

“Hey, what do you know, she does have a brain,” Malcolm says, voice still too light. It’s more unnerving than if he was just shouting like he usually does. “Yes, Nicola, this is about Andy Murray. I distinctly remember calling this office and telling you to dump Murray like he was radioactive waste. And yet, somehow, that hasn’t happened.”

“No,” Nicola says, tensing in anticipation. “No it didn’t.”

There’s silence, and it takes Nicola a moment before she realizes that Steve and Jamie have stopped their shouting outside. Probably listening in, or trying to, anyway.

“Started your own little coup, have you?” Malcolm asks next, but in a voice that is nearly free from the expected menace. Nearly.

“No,” Nicola says with forced patience, “I simply made a different call.”

“Think you know best now, is that it?” Malcolm asks, again in that mild tone, and Nicola would almost, almost prefer the yelling--at least with the yelling you know what to do, which is brace yourself until the verbal flogging is at an end. At least with the yelling, Nicola knows to keep her guard up. With this, with Malcolm staring at her and speaking in that low, even, dangerous tone--Nicola has no idea what to expect. Or how to react.

So in a last-ditch effort, Nicola looks him square in the face and tells the truth.

“This isn’t personal, Malcolm. And it’s not about--about showing off or showing you up or whatever conspiracy theory is rattling about in your head. Believe me, I’m well aware I owe you better than that--” Malcolm’s face flickers at that, and Nicola says, a spark of irritation flaring up in her, because he already knows this and it shouldn't need to be said, “Oh yes, between Jamie and my daughter, I’ll probably always be grateful to you, and you know that and you’ll use it, which is fine, mostly. But this is my department, this is my _job_. You don’t get to stand in the way of me doing my job.”

Malcolm’s staring at her and Nicola adds, utterly reckless now, “Especially when you’re wrong.”

Still silence from Malcolm. Nicola’s left to watch him with a wary eye--that speech sounded well enough in her head, but she has no idea how Malcolm’s taking it.

Finally, finally Malcolm reacts, stepping right into her personal space, barely a few inches between them, until she has to tilt her head to keep looking him in the eye. “You,” Malcolm says, “--are a bigger headache than your last three predecessors _combined_ , you know that?”

Nicola tilts her chin up even higher. “You must’ve been bored senseless then,” she says tartly, but with her heart thumping loudly in her chest. “Good thing I came around.”

Malcolm lets out a huff of breath that could just maybe count as a laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Don’t fucking push it, darling,” he says, looking straight into her face, voice low. “You’re on ice so thin a fucking mouse would fall straight through.”

Nicola stares up at him for a second, before stepping back and away, breaking her gaze. “So what else is new?”

Malcolm is still watching her, eyes hooded. “Nothing at all.”

Nicola looks back at him, and she opens her mouth to say--what, she’s not sure, but then Jamie’s banging loudly on the glass walls, shouting, “Oi, can I get my minister back already?”

The moment, if there even was one, is broken, as Malcolm turns to stare at the closed door and abruptly goes to throw it open, saying to Jamie, waiting on the other side, “ _Your_ minister?”

Jamie is completely unabashed, saying sharply, “Yes, and she’s also my fucking boss now, not you, so if I could have her back so we could handle this fucking crisis you’ve dropped in our laps, that’d be excellent, thank you, thank you so _very_ fucking much--”

While he’s spitting all this at Malcolm, Jamie is also ushering Nicola out of the room, shepherding her back into her office, thankfully free of Steve Fleming at least. No one else is there except for Glenn, who stands up, giving Nicola an awkward nod.

“I feel like a goddamn yo-yo,” Nicola mutters. “Can I sit down at least, or should I still expect to be yanked up and marched somewhere else?”

Jamie gestures impatiently at her chair, and Nicola wearily sits down at her desk, taking a deep breath before asking, “Okay. Either one of you tells me how we fix this stupid mess, or you can just lie to me and tell me it’s not as bad as I think it is.”

“It’s worse than you think it is,” Jamie says, blunt as ever. “And it’s coming at the worst possible time too, not that I should need to tell you that.”

“No,” Nicola says grimly, thinking of the polling numbers and what Clare Ballentine’s reaction must have been when she heard--there’s no way she hasn’t heard by now. All those possibilities, the chance for Nicola to actually be part of something meaningful, something truly important--

“But,” Jamie says, and Nicola looks up in surprise, “I’ve got an idea to fix this, all right? A good one. But this one here,” he jerks his thumb at Glenn, “--thinks I have to run it past you first.”

“Well, for God’s sake, enough with the suspense, out with it.”

Jamie and Glenn share a look, and then Glenn says, “Look, so far all the press really have is that the stats are wrong. They might think it’s a deliberate attempt to fool the public, but they’ve got no evidence as to who, specifically, was trying to fool them. What they need is a villain.”

Nicola listens, her forehead starting to crease as she realizes what they’re getting at.

“So we give them a villain, Nicola,” Jamie says. “Hell, Fleming’s already got the mustache to twirl, the black hat just completes the ensemble.”

Nicola stares at the pair of them, then asks, disbelieving, “You want to stitch up _Fleming_ for this?”

“Of course I do,” Jamie says, as if this is completely reasonable and not utterly insane, and quite possibly suicidal. “Hell, it’ll be fucking easy, I’ll barely have to make anything up, and it’s probably even true, God knows the fucker would--”

“Jamie,” Nicola says, interrupting him. “Jamie, it would be a lie. Christ, this wasn’t some grand conspiracy, nobody tried to fix the numbers, it was just a mistake, just a--a stupid mistake over fucking semantics. I can’t stitch someone up for that, not even Steve fucking Fleming.”

Jamie stares at her for a long moment, and she can actually see the growing horror on his face as he realizes she means it. “Ohhh, fuck me.”

“Tell me you both realize how insane this is,” Nicola pleads, although given that they’re the ones who came into her office with this lunatic plan, that’s obviously not in the cards. “We can’t spin the press lies about Fleming, we’ll get caught, and once we get caught we’ll be crucified.”

Jamie is clutching at his head, and he exclaims, “This from the woman who just went up against Malcolm Tucker. Oh, I have gone down the fucking rabbit hole, all I need now is to see that stupid caterpillar smoking a pipe.”

“When I went against Malcolm, I was in the right, and everybody knew it,” Nicola protests. “This isn’t at all the same thing--”

Jamie slams his hands on her desk and leans in, demanding, “So him coming in to royally screw your department, sending me off on a wild-goose chase in Birmingham and making me look the damn fool, trying to touch you up in your own fucking office—all that doesn’t put us in the right?”

“It would be a _lie.”_

“We don’t know that,” Glenn cuts in desperately, hands out in supplication. “Look, let me mediate here for a second--”

Jamie wheels away, muttering over his shoulder, “Yeah, you fucking try and reason with her, then, see what luck you have--”

“I don’t need--” Nicola snaps back, but Glenn’s talking over her, saying, “Nicola, look. I hear what you’re saying here, I really do.”

“I don’t,” Jamie interjects, his voice cutting. “Know why? Because it’s total and complete _bullshit_ \--”

“You think we’ll be setting up Fleming for something he didn’t do, something he’s innocent of, right?” Glenn asks, and when Nicola reluctantly nods, he says quickly, “But Nicola, we don’t know he’s innocent.”

Nicola groans. “Oh, come off it Glenn, you heard what he said. The crime stats from 2004 up to the last quarter, but not _including_ the last quarter, and we’re the ones who--”

“Because he gave those stats to us,” Glenn insists. “It’s like you said to him, why give us those stats in the first place? Why give us such vague directions, and then rush the publication before we could verify anything?”

Nicola hesitates, but she shakes her head. “Glenn, it’s a nice story, but we don’t know it’s true--”

“We don’t know it’s not, either,” Glenn says, voice persuasive. “Believe me, I have seen Fleming and his ilk do a lot worse to get the results they want. And Nicola...this story could get very ugly for you if we don’t get ahead of it now. Very fucking ugly.”

She’s wavering. She shouldn’t, she knows better than to do this, than to get her hands in the kind of muck she’s always abhorred, and yet--

“Nicola,” Glenn says, with nothing but sincerity in his voice, “--do you really want to let your political career get damaged, all to protect someone like Steve Fleming?”

Nicola closes her eyes, unable to restrain the slight shudder. When she finally opens them, she says, forcing the words out, “I suppose...I suppose it _is_ odd that he’d give us those stats, if he never intended for us to publish them.”

“Merciful God,” Jamie says in relief, staring up at the heavens. Nicola looks at him and says, sour, “Thought you didn’t believe in God anymore.”

“Hey, after the miracle I just watched this man perform,” Jamie says, pointing at Glenn, “-it’s almost enough to have me wanting to go to Mass again.” Nicola just looks at him, stone-faced, and now it’s Jamie leaning in again, but this time not to shout, but to say, intently, “Nicola. Everything I’ve done working for you up to now, that was kiddie stuff, yeah? I could’ve done it all in my fucking sleep. This right here? This is what I _live_ for. We can do this. A few whispers in the right ears, and you’ll be smelling like a field of roses while they’re dragging Fleming off to be clapped up in the stocks.”

Christ. Nicola leans back in her chair, exhausted, while Jamie continues.

“You want to know what the best story is? It’s a story that people want to believe is true. A minor department just making a silly mistake over figures? Nobody gives a toss about that story. The evil spin doctor working behind the scenes to mislead everyone? People want to believe that story. They’ll eat that story up like it’s fucking chicken tikka masala.”

Nicola looks at him, and she says the only thing that needs to be said at this point. “You realize that if we get caught, it’ll be us in the stocks?”

“Good thing we’re not getting caught then,” Jamie says, brisk. “Now, have I got your approval? Can we go ahead with this?”

There are times when Nicola has to remind herself of what she signed up for. And this is what she signed up for, along with the votes in Parliament, the media scrutiny, the sexist double standards, the nights of too little sleep and too much worrying--she signed up for this job, all of it, the good and the bad, and she can’t turn her back on that now.

Like always, she just has to plunge forward, and hope that it’ll be worth it in the end.

“Okay,” Nicola says. “Do it.”

Jamie pumps his fist in victory and goes without a word, practically bursting with energy. Glenn follows, but at a more sedate pace. “You won’t regret this, Nicola,” he promises her as he heads for the door. “Truly.”

Nicola doesn’t bother telling him that she regrets it already. Instead she tells him, weary, “Just make sure this fucking works, all right?”

“Will do, boss,” Glenn tells her, gently, closing the door behind him as he goes.

*

The hell of it is, Jamie’s plan really does work. By the time the evening news shows are airing, the narrative has already changed from DoSAC bungling the crime stats, to the more sordid, much more interesting story of DoSAC being used by the duplicitous press office to massage the crime stats. Nicola has no idea what nefarious methods Jamie’s used to get the press to believe this story so readily--the whole point is that she doesn’t ever find out how he’s done this--but whatever he’s done, it’s fucking _worked_.

Sort of. Oh, the press have bought it, swallowed it all whole, and they’re gleefully pointing their many, ink-stained fingers right at Steve Fleming.

It’s just that they’re not _only_ pointing their fingers at Fleming.

Nicola could have kicked herself once the headlines started to hit, Malcolm’s face front and center, the vengeful glee dripping off every page. Of course the press wouldn’t be content with Fleming’s scalp, of course they’d go after Malcolm the second they smelled blood in the water.

And logically, Nicola knows that it’s not her fault if Malcolm’s past misdeeds have come home to roost, and there’s nothing so far to indicate that the stories being spilled about Malcolm aren’t actually true. God knows he’s capable of it all, Nicola just has to remember him hitting Glenn, or wrecking her first public appearance as a cabinet minister just to put her in her place. Nobody, least of all Nicola, would ever be so deluded to think that Malcolm Tucker has ever been a nice man.

Nicola can very easily see the argument that Malcolm’s had this coming. She just can’t bring herself to believe it. So when she sees people her department happily eating up the coverage of Malcolm's supposed downfall, it just makes her feel queasy.

For better or worse, Nicola is where she is right now in no small part because of Malcolm, because when she'd asked for his help, he had looked at her and seen some spark of potential worth cultivating. She can’t forget that now, even if it’d be far more convenient for everyone if she did.

Jamie comes into her office, smashing through her reverie as he asks, brisk, “Ready for the launch?”

Nicola raises an eyebrow at him, and then pointedly looks down at the newspapers strewn across her desk. “Is that really all you’ve got to say to me now? With all this going on?”

Jamie barely glances down at the newspapers, and he just says, “That’s not my fucking problem.”

Nicola laughs, incredulous. “For God’s sake, we helped _cause_ this, and you’re telling me it’s not your problem?”

“Nope,” Jamie says, stubbornly. “That’s Malcolm’s bed, he’s got to go and lie in it, no matter how many press hounds have shit in it. Know what my problem is right now? You, and this launch, and this fucking inquiry Nicholson’s heading up--”

“Jamie,” Nicola says, cutting in. She gets up from her seat and stares at him. “Jamie, it’s Malcolm.”

Jamie’s face twitches, barely noticeable but still there. He still sticks to his lines, though, insisting, “Look, Malcolm’s a soldier, right? I’ve seen him wriggle his way out of holes tighter than a choir boy’s arsecheeks. This won’t wreck him. Just you wait.”

Nicola wants to believe it, but--

“He’ll be _fine_ ,” Jamie insists, forceful as ever. “Now,” he adds, coming over to take her by the arm, “--let’s go and make sure you’re fine too, hey?”

Nicola breathes in and out. “All right. Let’s get me out in front of those fucking microphones already.”

The launch is...interesting. It doesn’t go badly, not by a long shot, but Nicola’s no fool, she knows that the number of cameras and press there is not because everyone wants to hear her opinions on carbs and saturated fats.

At least Andy Murray seems lovely enough, even if that monotone of his is even more unfortunate in person, poor dear. Still, she thinks their relative speeches go down well enough, hers filled with the crucial talking points Jamie’s drilled into her head, delivered in a bright voice.

It helps that it's a good policy, something she can be proud of, something that can hopefully stand up and do some actual good--but if she doesn't handle this crime stats fuckup right the fuck now, nobody is going to give a rat's toss about this policy, or any other policy of hers either.

So when the first question comes about the inquiry, Nicola keeps her hands folded so that no one can see her right hand tightly gripping her paper clip, and says easily, "Yes, I will be speaking in front of the inquiry, and I look forward to presenting the facts to Lord Nicholson."

That's not enough to stop the pack of wolves at the door, and she knew it wouldn't be. "Do you have any comment on the allegations regarding Malcolm Tucker's involvement?" Angela Heaney from the _Mail_ asks, her head tilted.

"I really couldn't speak to those allegations about Steve Fleming or Malcolm Tucker, and certainly not before I've gone before the inquiry," Nicola says.

“But would you say it’s accurate, that Malcolm Tucker has created a culture of spin within the government?” Heaney presses.

Nicola pauses before answering. “Listen, I will speak to the inquiry about the crime stats, because that is my job and duty as a cabinet minister. It’s also my duty as a cabinet minister to get on with the business of managing my department, and to try and reach ordinary Britons about programs that can impact their lives, like this campaign. As titillating as I’m sure this scandal is for you, with all the insider chat about spin doctors and such, I do have an actual job I need to be doing here.”

Nicola delivers every line of this in her calmest, most matter-of-fact voice, and thank God, thank the good Lord that that is the clip that runs on all the evening programs, with solemn voiceovers from the talking heads about there being one person in government who was somehow able to rise above the fray.

As usual, Jamie was right. Nicola really is going to come out of this without a scratch on her. No one, not even _Private Eye_ or the _Daily Mail_ , are suggesting that Nicola and her department are at all to blame.

No, it’s just Malcolm and Steve Fleming who are the ones getting slaughtered.

*

"Is there any reason you've called me here at the stroke of midnight, Malcolm?” Nicola asks as she enters Malcolm’s office.

“We’ve got half an hour to midnight, at least,” Malcolm says, making a show of checking his watch. “Plenty of time before you turn back into a pumpkin.”

“And here I was, thinking orange wasn’t my color.” Nicola briefly considers waiting Malcolm out until he reveals why she’s actually here, but it’s late and she’s tired and impatient and frankly, sick to deal of working on someone else’s timetable. “Malcolm, why am I here?”

Malcolm’s response is prompt, natural-sounding, laced with his usual irritation of dealing with idiot politicians for a living. “Because you’ve got that fucking sit-down with the _Guardian_ soon, and Christ only knows what dribbling--”

“Bullshit,” Nicola says. “You’re actually going to sit there after calling me in at midnight, when I’m scheduled to go in front of the inquiry in less than ten hours, and tell me you want to coach me for the _Guardian_ interview?”

Malcolm doesn’t say anything for a bit, mouth pursed and his gaze sharp. “Well,” he says, in a tone of exaggerated innocence, “--if you’re going to mention it, perhaps we should have a wee chat--”

“Oh God,” Nicola groans, getting out of her seat.

“What are you doing now?” Malcolm demands as Nicola heads for the bottle of whiskey, sitting on the side table.

“Getting a drink, I’ve earned it,” Nicola tosses back over her shoulder, pouring herself a very generous drink. “Between you and that twat-faced Fleming, I’ve earned an entire pub’s worth of drinks.”

Malcolm grandly waves a hand. “Help yourself, you lush.”

“Oh, I will,” Nicola promises him, stalking back to her seat, taking a healthy swallow of whiskey. Once she’s lowered the glass, Nicola fixes Malcolm with a look as she asks, “Are you really trying to vet my testimony right now? Do you have any idea about the trouble either of us could land in if this gets out?”

Instead of flaring up at this, Malcolm gives her a sideways sort of glance, and then tosses her one of the newspapers from the stack on his desk. “Take a look at that, will you?”

Nicola barely needs to look at the newspaper to recognize the story in it--she’s seen it already, and five others like it. She looks anyway, at the headline, Malcolm’s picture taking up half the page, and then she looks back up at Malcolm.

“Look at these headlines,” Malcolm says to her, gesturing to the newspapers. “They’re baying for blood, these fucking hacks. My blood, Steve’s blood--but not yours. No, you’re in the clear.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Jamie’s handiwork, I take it.”

Nicola stays silent and doesn’t deny it, and Malcolm chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. I’d have done the same in his position. Hell, I taught him how to do it. Looks like he took those lessons to heart, eh?”

It’s not that Nicola can’t see what Malcolm's doing. She feels guilty about what’s happened, and he knows that and he’s going to use it, because he’s Malcolm Tucker and this is what he does.

It doesn’t mean anything that Malcolm’s saying right now isn’t true. It doesn’t mean that the bastard’s tactics aren’t _working._

“You were on holiday,” Nicola says at last, voice quiet. “We thought--” She pauses, and then says, more carefully, “I mean, I’m surprised the media’s making such a fuss over you, seeing as how you were on holiday when it happened.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says, pale eyes fixed on her face. “Tell me something, Nicola. Would you say that to the inquiry, to Nicholson if he asks you? If he asks you where I was in all this, would you tell him that I was away on holiday?”

"Would I tell Nicholson that you were on holiday?" Nicola repeats, thinking it over. "Yeah, I think I could say that. Especially since as far as I know it's the truth."

Malcolm watches her, and doesn’t say anything. Unsure of what he’s thinking--or even what he’s seeing when he looks at her--Nicola just looks back, as steady as she can.

At last, a corner of his mouth tilts up. “There’s my girl, yeah.”

It’s warm in the office, but Nicola gets a chill. She abruptly sets her glass down on his desk with a dull thunk, and gets up. “I’m not your girl, Malcolm. Not even close.”

If he responds to that, Nicola doesn’t hear it as she goes out the door.

*

Today’s the day Nicola speaks to the inquiry, and Jamie’s a bigger mess about it than she is.

“Do you know your lines?” he asks for what must be the fourth time, and Nicola wearily looks up from the latest press pack that Terri’s put together.

“Yes, Jamie, I know my bloody lines. I had no idea the figures weren’t accurate, we were told to publish up to the last quarter, it all came as the greatest shock and we must do better, blah blah blah. Then I was thinking I’d finish up my testimony by asking the inquiry to please pay no attention to the mad Scot behind the curtain, lying in wait with a machete." Nicola smiles at him. "That cover it?"

"Don't forget my balaclava," Jamie says. "If I've brought the machete, no way do I forget the balaclava."

"By no means will I forget the balaclava," Nicola says solemnly.

Eventually Nicola makes her way to Number 10, where she’s ushered into a small office to sit across the newly minted Lord Julius Nicholson, Baron of something or other. “Congratulations,” Nicola says with a smile as Julius welcomes her in. “I suppose we’ll start seeing you wearing a coronet round Number 10, shall we?”

“Ah,” Julius says with a little chuckle, “--very good, Nicola, and yet unfortunately the coronet is normally reserved for a duke or duchess. Still, it is a thought, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Nicola says. “That’s...that is a thought, yes.”

“Right this way, if you please,” Julius says, solicitous, taking the chair out for her. Nicola takes her seat, feeling both a little amused--new title or no, Julius is clearly the same as ever--and a little bit surprised. Admittedly this is the first inquiry Nicola’s ever been a part of, but she wasn’t expecting Nicholson to be quite so...friendly.

“Now, Nicola. This inquiry is a very solemn, very serious matter and I don’t want to diminish that in any way,” Julius begins, fingers steepled as he looks at her over his glasses. “That being said, there’s no reason to be nervous, this isn’t an interrogation, we’re not MI-5. We’re just here to discover the truth, obviously.”

“Right,” Nicola says. “That’s good to hear.”

“Excellent,” Julius says, beaming at her, and that is when the suspicion Nicola’s had crystallizes into certainty--she’s not going to get in trouble at all here. Jamie’s machinations aside, the party isn’t going to let one of the few politicians capable of generating positive press take the fall for this fuckup. It’s Malcolm and Steve Fleming who are in trouble here, not her.

Strictly speaking, this is nothing new, and it’s certainly good news. And yet, when she’s presented with it, Julius’s softball questions and solicitous manner, knowing all the while that this inquiry is a foregone conclusion so far as she’s concerned, regardless of how much she’s actually to blame for this, it’s...deflating, somehow.

Or maybe that’s just the feeling you get when you realize, despite all your best efforts, that you are in the plague pits with everyone else.

Right, okay. Nicola can have her existential crisis later, right now she’s got to walk the path in front of her, which is getting out of this inquiry with her dignity and reputation intact. So she sticks to the talking points, stressing how it was Fleming who’d given them the figures, Fleming who had been vague in his instructions, and Fleming who’d given them too short of a deadline to properly vet anything before it was published.

She’s not sure how well it all goes down, though--Julius appears to be paying close attention, taking his own notes, making sure the stenographer is getting everything down. But then he asks, “And Malcolm? Can you lay out his involvement in this crime stats rollout?”

Nicola pauses. “Well, Malcolm was on holiday during the crime stats rollout. As I said, it was Steve who--”

“Yes, but I have it noted here,” Julius interjects, pointing at a paper on his desk“--that there was a phone call from your office to Malcolm’s blackberry that day.” Julius looks at her over his glasses and asks, “So was it more of a _working_ holiday for Malcolm, then?”

Fucking plague pits.

Nicola knows she doesn’t have to explain that away. Malcolm’s not her lookout, as Jamie keeps trying to hammer into her head. And after that moment in Malcolm’s office, with Malcolm looking at her and pegging her down in that one short, brutal sentence--

Still. You do the best you can with what you’ve got, and in all the mess over spin and the press and reputations to be saved or torched--there is still the simple fact that Malcolm had nothing to do with those crime stats.

So Nicola opens her mouth, and tries to make that point as best as she can. It’s even harder to gauge her success or lack thereof, Julius is giving nothing away, damn him, just delicately probing into who called when, what the phone call was about, and whether Nicola can honestly swear that Malcolm never for one second discussed the crime stats with any member of her staff.

And then, Nicola gets a reprieve in the most bizarre manner possible. One of Julius’ aides comes in, clearly agitated, leaning in to whisper into Julius’s ear, but they’ve left the door ajar, and Nicola knows in a second what they're talking about.

Malcolm’s voice is meant to carry, anyway, especially when he’s yelling at the top of his lungs.

“The hell is going on out there?” Nicola asks, standing halfway out of her seat.

“Stay here, I will find out,” Julius says quickly, rushing out of there, and Nicola could do as she’s told.

Or not.

She follows the shouting until she’s in a tiny office with Julius, Steve, and an utterly _demented_ Malcolm who’s shouting, “Yeah, well let’s see what the fucking Prime Minister has to say about that, eh?”

“What on earth is going on here?” Nicola asks, although a part of her already knows, with Steve’s smugness nearly palpable and Malcolm’s fury and desperation written clearly on his face.

Julius is the one to put it into words, though, saying, “It appears that at the moment, Malcolm is getting the sack.”

Nicola is frozen for a moment, before she says, mind a blank, “Now? I mean, I’m here now, in the middle of the sacking?”

And that gets Malcolm’s attention as he wheels on her, demanding with a finger pointed right at her heart, “You, fucking Nicola, tell them. _Tell_ them there was no phone call, that I was on my fucking holiday--”

Oh shit. Nicola freezes, but it doesn’t matter, as Steve purrs, “Oh yes, of course, I’d forgotten the two of you were in cahoots, with that special private relationship of yours--”

Nicola can actually feel her face freezing from shock. “Excuse me? Just who the fuck do you think you are, Fleming, trying to impugn my fucking integrity over your obvious vendetta--”

“Right, I think that’s enough unpleasantness,” Julius says over all of them, even as Steve is stepping forward, hissing like an angry goose at her about how it’s perfectly obvious, everyone’s seen it, and that just gets Malcolm rolling all the way up to Defcon 1--

And before she can get any more drawn into the muck, before she can leap forward and rip Steve Fleming’s wretched oversized head off his fucking body with her bare hands, Julius is showing her out, saying, “Nicola, let’s go, come on, let’s leave--”

“But look, Julius, if this is about what that bastard Steve said--” Nicola says, trying to twist about to look back at Malcolm, still shouting away about how he can’t be fucked over, he’s unfuckable, he’s Malcolm Tucker and he cannot be fucked by _anyone_ \--

“It doesn’t matter now, Malcolm's done. It’s done, he’s done.” Julius’ voice is firm, and he’s ushering her down the corridor with an arm about her shoulders. “Let’s just depart before this scene gets any more unseemly, hmm?”

“It’s Malcolm, everything about him is unseemly,” Nicola says on automatic, still unable to process that she might have just witnessed what everyone would’ve said was impossible--the end of Malcolm Tucker.

Of course, then they pass a crowd of people surrounding a television with the scrolling feed of _Malcolm Tucker Resigns_ and yes, this is really happening after all.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nicola mutters under her breath, abruptly feeling sick to her stomach.

“Yes,” Julius says, “I do believe that sums it up.”

*

Much later that evening, Nicola is sitting in the booth of a pub, watching Jamie MacDonald do his level best to give himself alcohol poisoning.

“Have you been able to get ahold of Sam?” Nicola asks after a moment, wondering exactly when she should signal to the barman to cut Jamie off. He doesn’t look like he’s about to have his liver explode, but you never know.

Jamie shakes his head morosely. “She’s gone radio silent, for the moment.”

Nicola waits, and then asks, tentative, “And Malcolm?”

Jamie shakes his head again. “Haven’t heard anything from him either. Jesus fucking-- _Fleming?_ Of all the things to take him down, he let that fucking diseased toad--”

“It wasn’t just about Fleming,” Nicola says. “The government’s dying and they’re looking for scapegoats. So they found one.”

Jamie is silent for a moment, then he abruptly says, “You were right earlier, we were feeding him to the wolves along with Fleming, and I didn’t--I told myself it didn’t matter, that as long as you were well out of it, then I’d done my job and to hell with the rest.”

Nicola considers, then leans over the table and says to him, “Finish your drink, and then I’ll take you home. And tomorrow we can get started.”

Jamie peers at her dubiously as she gets out of the booth. “Get started on what?”

“On your grand plan to take Steve Fleming down,” Nicola says, smiling at him. It takes only a moment before the light comes back into Jamie’s eyes, and Nicola laughs. “Thought that might do the trick. And as your boss, I’m telling you right now, Jamie MacDonald, I will settle for nothing less than complete and utter destruction.”

The grin that’s spreading across Jamie’s face now is an unholy and terrifying thing.

It’s also the best thing Nicola’s seen this whole wretched day. “It’ll be like Genghis Khan laying waste to all of Asia,” Jamie’s promising her now, the glee thick in his voice. “When I’m done, there won’t be enough of him left to fill a fucking breadbox.”

“Jamie,” Nicola says, in total sincerity, “I have absolutely no doubt that that’s true.”


	9. Chapter Nine

“Thank you again for agreeing to this meeting, Nicola,” Clare says with a warm smile as she settles down at her seat, right at Nicola’s kitchen table. The kids are off at the zoo with the nanny, so it’s just her and Clare at Nicola’s house.

“Well, you asked to meet somewhere discreet, and I can’t think of anything more discreet than my own house, so,” Nicola says with an awkward little laugh. “I think we’ve still got plenty of food left over from Sunday roast, if you…”

“Actually yes, that sounds excellent,” Clare says. “My eldest has decided to become a vegetarian and has banned all animal products from our house, and the rest of us are currently in a state of withdrawal. I need some roast.”

“Isn’t that veganism?” Nicola considers, even as she goes to get the leftovers.

“Whatever it is, it has my husband and younger children on the verge of mutiny.”

Over leftovers, Clare says, using her fork for emphasis, “Tucker’s resignation has exposed a void at the heart of the government. Dan Miller looks to be making an attempt to fill that void.”

Nicola raises her eyebrows. “What, he’s trying to force a coronation now?”

“Exactly. He’s gathering a group of various cabinet ministers who are looking to resign all at once and force a vote of no confidence in Tom’s leadership.”

“Well, shit,” Nicola says before she can stop herself, and winces.

Clare chuckles as she spears her food with her fork. “Yes, exactly. However, what I was thinking was that this could also be an opportunity. To find out what Miller’s up to.” She looks pointedly at Nicola, and it takes a minute before Nicola realizes what she’s getting at.

“How on earth do you expect me to find out what Dan Miller is up to?” Nicola asks.

Clare shoots Nicola an unimpressed look. “Nicola, let’s not be coy. You know full well that with those secret polling numbers that we all know about, practically everyone in the Party is racing to make you their new best friend.”

“That was before the crime stats inquiry,” Nicola protests.

Clare doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s clearly a close thing. “Nicholson’s findings aren’t out yet, it’s true, but everyone is well aware that you’ll come out of it clean.” She shoots Nicola a look, and says in a lighter tone, “And the way you managed to come out of that whole mess without a scratch and implicate Fleming and Tucker instead--it was impressive.”

“I never tried to implicate Malcolm Tucker,” Nicola says.

Clare raises her eyebrows. “But you did try to implicate Steve Fleming?” Nicola doesn’t say anything, and Clare chuckles. “By the way, I was meaning to ask about all those negative stories in the press about Fleming. All those stories of sexual harassment and inappropriate behavior coming out now, such a shock.” She waits a beat, and then says, “I see you and Jamie MacDonald come from the ‘scorched earth’ school of thought. Compared to that, I think cozying up to Dan Miller should be a cakewalk, don’t you agree?”

“Well, I suppose every girl dreams of being a spy at some point,” Nicola mutters at last.

“There’s the spirit,” Clare says, then looks at her plate. “I don’t suppose you have any more of the roast, do you?”

*

Nicola starts on Dan Miller right away at the next cabinet meeting. Despite Clare’s confidence, Nicola’s not entirely sure of her welcome--she’s never had much more than a nodding acquaintance with Dan, and surely he’ll see through her sudden interest.

Still, she makes her move before the cabinet meeting, choosing her moment carefully at a time when Dan is not surrounded by his usual entourage, but on his own tapping away at his Blackberry.

There’s no way this’ll work, Nicola thinks pessimistically, and yet it really does end up being just that simple. All she has to do is go over, a friendly smile pinned on her face, and say, “Hello, Dan,” and to her everlasting surprise, Dan takes care of the rest.

“Well, hello there, Nicola,” Dan says, looking up straight away as she approaches. He even puts his Blackberry away in his pocket to better focus his attention on her. “It’s good to see you, how have you been?”

“Oh, very well,” Nicola says brightly, then adds a little self-deprecating laugh. “I should say, considering everything that’s gone on, it’s been going well.”

“God, yes, it must’ve been a total circus for you,” Dan says, all sympathy. Nicola is about to trot out another self-deprecating quip when Dan steps forward and says, “You know, Nicola, I’ve been really hoping that you and I could have a chance to catch up, you know, one on one.”

It can’t possibly be this easy. “Do you know, I was just thinking the same thing,” Nicola says, as if it’s just occurred to her. “I’m sure your schedule is absolutely packed, but perhaps a quick lunch sometime?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Dan says, smiling down at her. “I’ll make sure my office gets in touch, yes?”

They part a few moments later, and as Nicola heads into the cabinet meeting she can feel everyone either staring at her or pointedly not looking her way. Nicola softly sighs, admitting to herself that Diana Rigg will most definitely not be eating her heart out.

*

At this point in her political career, Nicola shouldn’t be surprised at how quickly news travels in government. That does not mean that she isn’t taken aback to find Jamie waiting outside Richmond Terrace for her, face like a thundercloud, shouting the second her car door opens, “Just what the fuck do you think you’re playing at, Murray? Dan Miller? Dan _fucking_ Miller?”

“Oh my God,” Nicola says, dismayed, watching a few curious glances from the passerby, 90% of whom work here. “Just--Jesus Christ, just get in here before you land us on the front page of the _Mail._ ”

A livid Jamie climbs in next to her, and Nicola quickly tells her driver, “Look, can you just drive around the block a few times? And raise the partition, please? Thank you so much.”

Elvis, obliging as ever, immediately does as she asks him, and Nicola turns to Jamie and says, “If you’re going to start screaming at me, the least you could do is get your seatbelt on first.”

“My seatbelt?” Jamie repeats, incensed. “You’ve gone over to join the fucking enemy and you’re lecturing me about my fucking seatbelt?”

“Well, you know, us brave single mothers are always on the lookout,” Nicola shoots right back, and she knows it’s like poking a rabid bear in a flimsy cage, but sometimes she just can’t help herself. “Look, I know you love to get your daily shout in, but I’d appreciate at least getting a chance to explain before you start ripping your vocal cords to shreds.”

Jamie elaborately folds his arms across his chest, making a gesture at her to get the fuck on with it already.

“All right. Yes, I was cozying up to Dan Miller before today’s cabinet meeting. No, it’s not what it looks like, and no, I haven’t lost my mind.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing, then?” Jamie demands of her. “Aside from trying to give me a stroke.”

Nicola hesitates, but--her instincts are telling her to do this, and the thing is that when she actually follow her instincts, things more or less turn out all right. It’s when she starts second-guessing herself that everything goes to hell.

Well, okay then, onward into the breach. “I can’t tell you that, not yet.”

Jamie’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Ex-fucking-cuse me? I know I didn’t hear that right. I _know_ you’re not sitting there and telling me--”

“But I am telling you that,” Nicola says, cutting over him. God, she was right, they do need to have this talk now. Nicola is grateful for Jamie, thrilled to have him on her team for as long as he’ll stay there, but they do need to have this out now. “I’m telling you that because believe it or not, Jamie, I am in fact your boss, and shockingly enough, there is a chance that I might know what I’m doing now.”

Jamie gapes at her, too stunned--or too livid--to respond at first, and Nicola quickly takes advantage. “The question now is if _you_ know your lines, Jamie. If you can _hold_ the fucking line. Or, or are you always going to be the impulsive, demented maverick who nobody can control and who nobody can rely on?” And because she knows Jamie, she knows that hits him, she can see that sinking into his brain, and pounces.

“There is a plan with Miller,” she promises him, more quietly, leaning forward to make her point. “There is a plan and I have it under fucking control, and I don’t need to be babysat for it, do you hear me?”

Jamie just stares at her, jaw twitching, eyes narrowed to slits, before he violently shakes his head, muttering, “Christ, I must be out of my fucking head to be listening to you now.” Nicola cocks an eyebrow, waiting, and Jamie spits out, conceding defeat, “Fucking _fine_ , I hear you.”

Nicola exhales, the relief sinking into her bones. “Good.”

“Good, she says,” Jamie grumbles, his hands cutting through the air. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to find out what this brilliant fucking plan is, will I?”

Nicola starts to smile as an idea occurs to her. “If it helps, this plan will go a lot better if we can stage an argument right now about the thing I told you not to argue with me over.”

Jamie stares at her. “You want us to have a pretend fight? Over the very thing you told me to trust you on?”

Nicola gives a little shrug. “Yeah, I do.”

Jamie observes her for a moment, that brilliant and deviant mind clicking away, before a little smile starts to dawn on his face. “Playing the double-agent then, are we? You could’ve just fucking said so, instead of putting me through this song-and-dance.”

“I needed to know if you could keep to your lines,” Nicola says, not adding, _I needed to know if you trust my judgment._ “Now, do you want to help me with this or not?”

Jamie gives her a sharp grin. “Oh, it’d be my fucking pleasure.”

By far the hardest part about the ensuing scene they make in full view of the office is keeping a straight face. They make sure to keep within full view and within hearing distance of Ollie, and whenever Nicola catches sight of his gaping expression, it’s all she can do to keep from bursting into giggles. Jamie has to give her a warning look once or twice in the middle of the shouting, and Nicola quickly puts a hand over her mouth to keep from cracking into a giggle.

It all works out though, Jamie storming off in a pretend snit and Nicola shouting after him, “Come back when you’ve got your head sorted, Jamie, and not a fucking minute before.”

Glaring at everyone who’s staring back at her, Nicola demands in her iciest voice, “If none of you have enough work to keep you occupied, I can certainly fix that problem.”

The rapid pace at which people get back to their tasks--or suddenly find tasks to do--is rather gratifying. She can almost see the thrill that Jamie and Malcolm get from terrorizing everyone in their path.

Terri, looking wary, steps forward though, saying, "Erm, Nicola, I've just gotten a call from Dan Miller's office. About a meeting over dinner tomorrow?"

She hands Nicola the message, and Nicola tosses her hair, acutely aware that everyone's attention is on her. "Right. Thank you, Terri, I will be taking that call in my office."

"So that's actually happening then?" Ollie calls out. "Dan Miller and his lot."

Nicola gives him an arch look. "I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Right," Ollie says, and Nicola knows without question that this story will be around Richmond Terrace within the hour. If it even takes that long.

Nicola does end up returning Dan's call, but not before leaving a voicemail on Clare Ballentine's phone. "Clare, it's me. Well, obviously. Look, I've made contact, and I'm sure you've heard about Jamie, so give me a ring once you get this."

Then Nicola turns her attention to Dan. Smile on, voice turned to ingratiating, she says brightly into her mobile once it picks up, "Dan? It's Nicola. Yes, yes, I was so glad to hear back from you..."

That night at dinner, Nicola startles her children by cackling helplessly at an innocent reference to James Bond. Poor Ben ends up asking over and again, in aggrieved tones, "But why is she laughing?"

"Because," Nicola says, kissing her eldest son on the forehead and ignoring his noise of protest, "your mother is very, very silly. Although not nearly as silly as the people she works with."

*

Of all the people Nicola doesn’t want to see waiting for her in her office, Steve Fleming is first on the list. Christ, Nicola would rather have a meeting with Typhoid Mary rather than him right now. “Steve. To what do I owe the displeasure?” After that last, poisonous run-in, Nicola sees very little point in playing nice with Fleming anymore.

Steve chuckles fakely as Nicola takes her seat at her desk. “Oh, Nicola, I do enjoy that quick wit of yours.”

“Do you? How nice.” Nicola settles into her seat and looks Steve square in the face. “Yet again I’ll ask, what is it that you want?”

“I see you’re making friends with Dan Miller these days,” Steve says in a tone of deep displeasure, and Nicola scoffs.

“What is this, secondary school? Oh no, I was seen talking to someone for five whole minutes, what a scandal--”

“This is not--” Steve hisses, losing his cool before quickly getting control of himself back again; he chuckles and shakes his finger at Nicola, that genial mask back in place again. “No, no, I’m not letting you do this again, Nicola."

“Do what again?” Nicola asks, mild.

“You know bloody well _what_ , now let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? You’ve been linked with Dan Miller and his cabal, and I’ve been sent down here by the Prime Minister directly to see just what is going on with you and this abnormal department.”

“Abnormal?” Nicola repeats. “Good grief, but that’s rich coming from you.”

The eye twitch Steve's got right now can't be healthy, but Nicola is rather proud of herself for causing that reaction. "Getting quite the big head, I see." Steve looks at her with clear dislike; if nothing else, Nicola probably won't ever have to deal with Steve's cheek kisses again. "I warn you, sweetheart, everyone might be singing your praises now, but they'll be sharpening their knives for your eventual downfall. You're just a passing fad, you see? With your fluffy hair and your schtick of acting all normal and just middle-class enough to fool the voters, but it'll pass, it always does."

Nicola stays calm during this, stays unmoved. Maybe this could've rattled her, months ago, but not anymore. Now when she looks at Steve, all she can think is, is this supposed to be intimidating? After Jamie MacDonald and Malcolm Tucker, after having to deliberately bomb her own reputation in front of the press with talk of a self-eating cake? After the baptism of fire that has been her reign in DoSAC, Steve Fleming is supposed to frighten her?

Fuck that nonsense.

"Are you quite done, then?" Nicola asks him. "Because I actually do have important work to be doing. By the way Steve, do you really want to be here right now, threatening a female cabinet minister, with all those nasty little stories floating about in the press?" As Steve gapes at her in all his thwarted fury, Nicola gives a little shrug of the shoulders, saying, "It feels a tad reckless to me, but hey, it's only the end of your career."

"The end of my--"

"I mean, I'm sure it hasn't escaped the Prime Minister's attention that the second Malcolm leaves and you take over the reins is the second that the government starts coming apart at the seams. Doesn't look that great, now does it?"

"So this is about Malcolm," Steve says, an ugly look on his face. Well, uglier. "I might have known."

"No," Nicola says, refusing to bend at the mention of Malcolm's name. "This is about you, Steve, and how utterly irrelevant you're about to become. Now _do_ try to keep from breaking anything too expensive on your way out, will you? Got to keep the budget down."

Nicola does end up having to replace Robin's favorite coffee mug thanks to Steve's rather _dramatic_ exit from the offices, but she does so out of her own pocket. It's only fair, after all; she was very provoking.

That’s not the only order of the day--Nicola’s currently having to placate members of Clare’s faction, who are very displeased with her apparent defection to Dan Miller’s cabal, and somehow do it all without giving up the jig. She’s in the middle of composing an email to Niall Graves that is a more polite version of “take some bloody diazepam already”, when Jamie comes knocking on her open office door.

“Jamie,” Nicola says, remembering just in time that they’re still meant to be feuding; she gives him a stern look and says, “You’ve come back, I see.”

“Mind if we have a quick word, boss?” From the outside, Jamie’s doing an excellent impression of someone who is repentant and chastened, if you don’t get a good look at the smirk that’s lurking around his mouth.

Nicola gives him an arch look, and says, “Shut the door.” She can see Ollie and Glenn craning their necks for a better view, and once the door is safely shut, warns Jamie, “We’ll have to keep our voices low, you know how sound carries in this place.”

“No fucking kidding,” Jamie mutters. “How’s it been going here?”

Nicola stands, folding her arms for the benefit for their audience, and replies, “So far, so good. Dan Miller’s taken the bait, we’re having a late dinner tonight.”

“So what’s the plan? The real plan, I mean, aside from hopefully causing Fleming’s fat head to explode?”

“Miller’s cabal,” Nicola explains. “Everyone knows he’s got one, but nobody knows exactly who’s in it.” She lowers her voice even further, saying, “Clare wants me to get names in the hope we can scare them off, find a way to stall Dan’s coronation. Right now Clare still doesn’t have the support to take Dan head on, but if she can get more time--”

“Or get more support,” Jamie finishes for her, considering. “She’s looking to scare some people off Miller, eh? Perhaps I could offer my services there.”

“We want them scared off, Jamie, not dead,” Nicola warns. “Now, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. I’ve been eating some crow, and now I’m back with a new, more humble attitude. Brought an old friend round here too, helping him tie some loose ends.”

Nicola blinks, then narrows her eyes at Jamie, who is wearing an innocent expression, rocking back and forth on his heels. “No,” she says at last. “You _didn’t_.”

Jamie just grins, and Nicola gapes at him. “Malcolm’s back? Back at Richmond Terrace?”

“He’s here in DoSAC, actually,” Jamie says, grinning even more broadly now. “Put him over in the old liaison's office, he’s got Ollie helping him with the printer now.”

“Dear God,” Nicola says. “Just what the hell is he up to?”

“I haven’t the first clue about that, boss,” Jamie says, still with his air of false innocence. “He’s a changed man, he’s just looking to tie up some loose ends.”

“Loose ends like Steve Fleming?” Nicola asks.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly comment on that,” Jamie insists, but the grin on his face says it all.

On her way to the old liaison’s office, Nicola is waylaid by Ollie, who wants to warn her about Malcolm’s apparent newer, gentler attitude. “Jesus Christ, what is he playing at?” Nicola asks, torn between bewilderment and amazement. “Oh, God, and of course this would be happening today, of all days--”

“Right, yes!” Ollie says, jumping like he’s been hit with an electric prod. “The cabal, the would-be coup. Nicola, I’ve been wondering--is this really the right move? I mean, what do we really, really know about Dan Miller? How do we know he isn’t dodgy?”

“The whole point of Dan Miller is that nothing can find anything about him that’s dodgy,” Nicola says in exasperation. “He’s like fucking Spam.” She narrows her eyes at Ollie. “What’s this really about, then?”

“Just...looking out for you?”

Nicola knows the face she’s making shows what she thinks of that idea. “Well, that’s nearly as big a pile of bullshit as Malcolm turning a--” Then the penny drops. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. He sent you to sound me out on Miller’s cabal, try and scare me off. Reformed, my arse.”

Without another word to Ollie, Nicola storms right off into the old liaison’s office, not giving a shit about interrupting whatever Malcolm’s up to in there. Probably writing a five-point-plan on how to cause the maximum amount of chaos with the minimum amount of effort. He could probably teach a seminar, the arrogant fuck--

Nicola keeps up the internal tirade right up until she walks into the office, and then her brain goes offline for a second.

Malcolm glances up, disarmingly casual in his gray jumper, his eyes mild and his voice easy as he goes, "Hey, Nicola."

Nicola stares at him, as the insults and furious demands pile up in her head until she doesn't even know what to say first. God. If he’s going to waltz in and cause chaos, the least Malcolm could do is stop playing the innocent. The _very_ least he could do is to stop looking so attractive while he does it. Bastard.

Right, fuck it then. And fuck him if he can think that he can set her off-kilter with whatever the fuck he's doing now.

Nicola squares her shoulders. “Malcolm. Just what are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know.” Malcolm’s voice is still far too mild, and Nicola doesn’t like it on him, it’s all wrong. “Just tying up a few loose ends.”

“Like Steve Fleming’s immediate and bloody demise?” Nicola prods, waiting for the gleam in his eyes, the smirk that foretells mayhem and dismemberment.

“Forgive and forget,” the new Malcolm says. “That’s my motto.”

“Your motto?” Nicola parrotts, disbelieving. If it all wasn’t so unbelievable, she might burst out laughing. “You? The man who has Machiavelli’s The Prince tattooed on his scrotum? You don’t turn a new leaf, Malcolm, you don’t even have another leaf to turn to.”

Malcolm looks up at her from his desk, and for a split-second, there he is, the old Malcolm, the real Malcolm, the one Nicola would honestly prefer over this...beige facade.

And then he opens his mouth, and sure enough, chaos follows him. "Don't join Dan Miller's cabal, Nicola."

“Who says I’m joining--” Nicola cuts herself off with a sigh. “Never mind. I’d forgotten Ollie was in here earlier.”

“Dan Miller’s a bad bet, Nicola,” Malcolm says. “Ballentine’s a long shot, everyone knows that, but least she’s got substance to her. There’s about as much to Dan Miller as there is to a handful of after-dinner mints. It’ll be Tom all over again, except twice as bad.”

There literally isn’t anything about Malcolm’s advice that she disagrees with. Aside from the notion that she needs to hear it at all, that she’s still naive enough to need to be led by the hand.

That she’ll still blindly follow Malcolm’s every word, simply because he’s the one telling it to her.

“And I suppose I ought to just take your career advice then, shall I? Just keep on...jumping when you call?” Nicola can hear the bitter note in her own voice, and walks it back with an effort. “Keep your focus on Steve Fleming, Malcolm, or--whatever plot you’re hatching in here. Make use of Ollie while you’re at it. Just don’t try and interfere with me. I’ve got work to do.”

Malcolm’s expression freezes, but before he can say anything else, Nicola walks on out without a second look back. She’s become good at that; it’s a hard-won survival instinct.

*

The rest of the day goes smoothly enough, given that it’s currently being overrun by not one, but two mentally disturbed Scots. Nicola isn’t bothered by it, though, she is absolutely not bothered, and if she spends an inordinate time of her day locked in her office buried in paperwork, no one is there to tell her otherwise. Even if Jamie keeps giving her pointed looks and the rest of her staff walk around her like she’s a particularly unstable, ticking bomb.

She’s got things to do and a cabinet minister to spy on, Nicola’s schedule is completely full. She doesn’t have time to worry about anything else, and so she won’t. She fucking won’t.

And so Nicola sails right on out of the office at 5:30 on the dot, cheerfully saying goodbye to everyone she passes, and ignoring the speculative looks she gets.

And if she’s humming the theme from Goldfinger as she goes down the many flights of stairs, well Christ, it’s not like there’s anyone around to hear her.

*

The dinner itself ends up being the most surreal part of Nicola’s day. Which should be impossible, and yet there it is. Ever since Nicola got into the cabinet, she keeps finding new heights of absurdity to be reached. It’s both awe-inspiring and weirdly deflating, because no matter what comes next, there is never an end to the madness. There just isn’t.

And from Dan Miller of all people. Christ.

Not that it starts out bizarre, exactly. The restaurant is perfect for both their purposes, meant to be impressive and discreet. And as Dan greets her with a handshake, a gentle pat to the arm--Nicola is, for a second, almost impressed. God knows she doesn’t want to see Dan Miller as leader for the party, but if she were open to it, it would be easy to have her head turned by Dan’s tactics.

But then they get to talking, just small talk at first, Nicola’s kids, chatter about the latest policy efforts--and it’s the strangest feeling. Aside from Nicola feeling like a low-rent Diana Rigg, Dan Miller is just so _odd_. You should feel like you’re talking to an actual human being, someone with flesh and blood and sweat glands, but it’s rather like talking to a very realistic-looking android in human skin. Everything’s just off. And the more you notice it, the more you can’t help but notice it, until it’s all you can see or think about.

Case in point--they’ve moved on to discussing their constituents, and Nicola’s just told a story about canvassing door to door and saving a potentially hairy situation by helping an elderly, likely senile woman remember the lyrics to a song from _Singin’ In The Rain_ , of all things. “Thank God, she didn’t ask me to tap dance. Debbie Reynolds I most certainly am not,” Nicola finishes with a laugh.

Dan’s smiling, and he says now, “God, that’s great. That story, it’s just so...it’s so very _you_ , Nicola.”

Nicola feels her expression going slightly quizzical, but tries to laugh it off with, “Well, I know it does have the faint whiff of the ridiculous--”

“Oh, no, no, I mean that as a good thing,” Dan says. “Your energy, your whole...vibe, it’s just so impressive. So _real_. People really respond to it. Even going back to that whole viral moment with the crying baby, the way you handled that moment, it was all so well-managed. Really, really impressive.”

“Well,” Nicola says with another laugh that hopefully only sounds awkward to her ears, “--thank you for that, Dan.”

“See, that’s why,” Dan starts, leaning in a little over the table, “--that’s why I’m so excited to bring you onboard, Nicola. You’ve got that touch, you know, that way with the common voter. I think that’s something we can really harness, something we can channel in a very positive way. Even if this coming election doesn’t quite...turn out the way we would all wish.”

“Right,” Nicola says slowly. It’s actually almost fascinating in a way--not Dan’s pitch itself, God, she’s totally unmoved by that. Rather, the way Dan seems incapable of saying things that aren’t packaged in buzzwords, all of it sounding like they’ve been crafted by a team of highly-skilled publicists. She’s suddenly consumed by an intense curiosity as to whether he’s ever said the word “fuck” in his life. Can he even say the word fuck? Or is it like the autocorrect feature on a mobile phone, where it gets flipped in his brain from a good old-fashioned four-letter-bomb into something benign, like ducks.

“And of course,” Dan says, reaching for his water glass, “--there’s also the people you can bring with you over to our side.”

“Right, of course,” Nicola says. “I won’t lie to you, Dan, I’m sure you’re well aware that Jamie’s been a bit...dubious about you, historically, but I’m sure that could be all--”

“Jamie?” Dan repeats, clearly incredulous. It’s rather impressive, as it’s the closest Nicola’s seen to him having an unfiltered emotional reaction yet. Or ever, really. “Oh, Nicola, I don’t mean Jamie at all. No, definitely not.” At Nicola’s raised eyebrows, Dan says, “Not that I’m not sure Jamie doesn’t have many fine qualities, it’s just that I was referring to _Malcolm_.”

“Malcolm,” Nicola repeats, blankly. At Dan’s nod, she says again, wanting to be sure her ears are in proper working order, “You mean Malcolm _Tucker?_ ”

Dan keeps nodding at her, like this is a reasonable thing to suggest instead of total lunacy. Hardly able to believe it, Nicola says, “You...think I have some special pull with Malcolm?”

Dan blinks; clearly this was not what he’d expected to hear. “Well, it’s rather obvious, you know, you two do have that special relationship--not that I’m judging,” he adds hastily as Nicola sits back in her chair. “It’s just a thing that has been noted.”

“Noted,” Nicola says. Jesus, she should’ve ordered wine after all. And told the waiter to leave the bottle. “It--Dan. Are you seriously telling me right now that the reason you want me to join your would-be rebellion is because you think I can somehow bring Malcolm Tucker on board?”

“Oh, no, Nicola, that is hardly the only reason,” Dan says quickly, moving to soothe what he must think are her ruffled feathers. “I won’t deny that it’s a factor, but really, you bring so much to the table already--”

“Because I don’t know if you’ve realized this, Dan, but hardly anyone can tell Malcolm Tucker what to do. Not even the actual PM can manage it, most days.”

“Now, Nicola,” Dan says, with a smile that’s meant to be ingratiating. “Modesty is all well and good, but really now. We’re all aware of the special interest he’s taken in your career, the way he brought Jamie MacDonald on for you. That business with the inquiry--I even hear that he’s currently set up camp in your DoSAC offices while he settles up...whatever it is he’s settling.”

There are so many things Nicola could say. She could deny it, she could tell Dan Miller just where he can fucking go with his braindead assumptions--but a calmer, cooler voice in the back of her mind is saying, urgently, not to lose her cool, but instead to go and _use_ this.

So she swallows her first reply, and presses her lips together. “I...wouldn’t even know where to start, with Malcolm,” Nicola says at last, but in a different tone now, like she’s actually considering what it would take. “I mean, it’s Malcolm. He’s got to be handled carefully, I’m sure you realize this.”

There’s no mistaking the gleam in Dan’s eyes now, even as he’s nodding with all apparent sincerity, forehead furrowed like he’s really listening to her. “Of course, Nicola. But--if we _were_ to try and bring him in, what would you suggest?”

The strangest part is, even as Dan’s saying this, Nicola’s realizing what it would actually take, to bring Malcolm on for a different candidate. That for all of Dan’s assumptions, he’s not totally wrong. Nicola does know what it would take to bring Malcolm in. “You’ve got to convince Malcolm. Make him believe he’s backing the winning horse. If he thinks he’s got something, something solid--” Nicola’s voice hitches for a moment, remembering that long-ago moment in his office, Malcolm seeing that spark of potential in her and doing something about it. Forcing _her_ to do something about it.

She pushes on, finishes with, “If you can get him to believe in something, in its potential for success, then you’ve got him.”

And as she looks into Dan’s face, Nicola knows that she’s got Dan Miller right where she wants him. “Of course, he’d have to be convinced,” she says, gently. “I couldn’t just go to him with a castle in the sky and have him come on board. He’d want assurances. Something concrete.” She pauses, and then lets it fly. “If you wanted us both on board, Dan--we’d need those assurances first. We’d need you to tell us what makes you a sure bet.”

Dan’s face shifts, and Nicola knows she’s hit the right spot, stoked and wounded his ego enough that he’ll tell her exactly what she needs to know. “Oh Nicola,” Dan says, and Nicola gives him the first genuine smile she’s had all evening. “I would be so glad to do just that.”

*

Clare Ballentine, as it turns out, is a cackler. As Nicola’s car makes its way through London on the way to Nicola’s home, Nicola settles back in her chair and listens to Clare positively cackle with delight on the other end of the phone.

“And he just told you?” she asks yet again. “Just like that, he gave up his hand?”

“He really did,” Nicola says, smiling all over again at the memory, at her triumph. “It was actually quite simple, all I had to do was butter up his ego and poof, there he was, spilling out the details of his cabal. Unfortunately, we only have this weekend to try and chip away it, Dan’s wanting to pull the trigger on those resignations by next week.” She pauses, and then says, delicately, “Clare--might I suggest bringing Jamie in for this? This sort of thing--”

“--by which you mean putting the fear of God into people,” Clare interjects, dry.

“I’d argue it was the fear of the devil, really, but why argue?” Nicola quips. “But yes, Jamie’s made for this stuff. If you need fast results--and you do--then he can deliver them for you.”

“God knows I’ve been curious to see him in action,” Clare muses. There’s a brief pause, and then Clare is asking, voice unusually diffident, “Nicola, I need to ask--have you ever regretted it? Having Jamie on your team, has he ever been too much to handle? And I need you to be honest with me now.”

“Honestly, Clare,” Nicola tells her, “If you’re looking for someone totally sane, Jamie will never be that. But he’s brilliant, he’s loyal, and he’s someone you want on your side. If I were you, Clare, I’d bring him on.”

“Okay,” Clare says. “Then I suppose you’d better bring him on then, shouldn’t you?”

“Will do,” Nicola says, smiling.

“And Nicola? Brilliant work tonight.”

Nicola knows she’s smiling ear to ear as she says, “My pleasure. Goodnight, Clare.”

Still smiling, Nicola’s next phone call is to Jamie. “Nicola,” Jamie says when he picks up the phone, in a suspiciously hearty voice. “Good to hear from you.”

“Hi, Jamie, where are you?” Nicola asks, only a little warily. “Can you talk?”

“Sure, sure--I’m just at dinner with Malcolm and Sam.”

“Of fucking course,” Nicola mutters, and sure enough, in the background she can hear Malcolm going, “Fucking ask her what happened with Miller, no, just give us the phone there--”

“Don’t you dare hand the phone to him,” Nicola orders, sitting up in her seat. “You put him on the line, Jamie, I swear I’ll send you back to Birmingham for a week.”

“You do that, and that city’s getting fucking fire-bombed, it’ll be like the fall of fucking Dresden,” Jamie says. His voice gets more muffled as he says, “Fuck’s sake, Malcolm--get off! No, you can’t talk to her. Because she’s my fucking boss, that’s why. Sam, darling, just hold him down until he comes to his fucking senses. Or he finds his senses, whichever.”

When Jamie comes back on the phone, he sounds only a little breathless. “Right, don’t worry, I’ve got Malcolm stashed in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Thank you, Vernon Dursley,” Nicola says. “Jamie, I’ve just gone from my meeting with Dan Miller, and he gave me the names. I got him to give up the names of the entire fucking cabal.”

Jamie lets out a whoop. “Fucking brilliant,” he says. “Good fucking work there, Smiley.”

Nicola laughs, but says, “Le Carre novels aside, Clare’s now looking to chip away at Miller’s support, but we’ve got to move fast, he’s set to have those resignations go through next week. So we’ve really only got this weekend to work with, and Clare wants to bring you on, you know, as an agent of chaos. Can you do it?”

“Can I do it?” Jamie repeats. “Nicola, do you have any idea who you’re talking to here? You give me 48 hours, and I’ll have Dan Miller infected with the political equivalent of fucking leprosy.”

Nicola laughs again. “Well then, you’re on the case.”

There’s some background noise Nicola can’t quite make out, and then Jamie is asking, in a different tone, “Ah, Nicola? If Malcolm were to ask me about what’s happened tonight with you and Dan Miller, is there anything you’d want me to tell him?”

Oh Christ, not this again. “You tell him that it’s none of his bloody concern,” Nicola says, firm. “And tell him that I am under no obligation to run anything past him, not anymore. Do you have that down, or do I need to say it again?”

“Ohh, I’ve got it,” Jamie promises her. “I’ve got it and I’m staying the fuck out of it, God knows you two are fucking weird about each other as is, no need for me to get sucked in.”

“I, we aren’t--” Nicola splutters for a moment, before regaining control of herself. “Look, Jamie, it has been a very long day, and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be any shorter, so if you don’t mind, I am going to enjoy the peace and quiet from my empty house, and toddle off to bed.”

“Yeah, you’ve not got the kids this weekend, right,” Jamie says. “Yeah, no, go on and enjoy your victory, run a bubble bath or whatever. I’ll be in the trenches, don’t you fret.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Nicola says. “Controlled chaos, Jamie, remember. Good night.”

“Night, Nicola.”

“And not a word to Malcolm, remember,” Nicola adds, but Jamie’s already hung up.

*

It’s an odd feeling, coming home to an empty house. The kids are off for the weekend with James’ sister and her kids, and so Nicola is rattling around the empty rooms, no homework to help with, no arguments to mediate, no negotiations over what they’ll be watching on the television tonight.

She picks up the phone to check with the kids and say goodnight, counting it as a minor victory that even Ella got on the phone to say, sleepily, “Night, Mum.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Nicola says.

Once she’s gotten off the phone with James’ sister Emily, Nicola looks about, at something of a loss for what to do with herself now. Nothing seems like it’s very appealing--or that it’ll be a good distraction from brooding over her all-too-obvious links to Malcolm, or about the events she’s set in motion, or what her career and the Party will look like after this week.

So much change is on the horizon, and Nicola has no idea where it’ll all end up. Where she'll end up.

Finally she does decide on drawing a bath. Maybe if she has a nice, long soak, it’ll be enough to let her brain turn itself off for a while.

Nicola’s already in her bathrobe when her mobile buzzes; when she glances at the screen and sees that it’s Malcolm, she ignores it. She ignores the second phone call as well, she’s picking a paperback to read and she is off duty this weekend, no matter what Malcolm might think. Nicola’s leaning towards one of her well-worn Georgette Heyer novels, and debating between _A Civil Contract_ and _Frederica_ sounds far more appealing than getting involved in Malcolm’s latest scheme.

The banging on her front door starts less than five minutes later.

“Jesus Christ,” Nicola says, blankly, over the loud and emphatic knocks. “It can’t be. He fucking wouldn’t.”

Her phone buzzes again, and Nicola glances down to see a text from Sam, reading, _I’m sorry, I did try to stop him._

“Oh my God,” Nicola says, tightening the sash of her robe as she hurries downstairs to get to the front door. “I’m at the mercy of a maniac.”

Once she's at the door, Nicola asks, “Are you insane?” She peers through the peephole to confirm that yes, it is Malcolm, looking as unhinged as he must be, to do this now. “You realize that if my neighbors call the cops, we’ll be on the front page of the Express with the headline being who the fuck even _knows_ what--”

“So then you’d better let me the fuck in then, shouldn’t you?” Malcolm calls back, glaring straight into the peephole.

Nicola seethes, but there’s really no hope for it, so she throws the door open before she can think twice, or before she can remember that she’s wearing nothing other than her cranberry-colored robe. Not that Malcolm would notice if she wore a potato sack, but it’s the damned principle of the thing.

Too late for it now, as Malcolm is barging past her into the house, saying emphatically, “No, no, no. No, I refuse, I categorically and absolutely fucking _refuse_ , you’re not gonna do this now.”

“Malcolm, it’s the middle of the bloody night,” Nicola says, hanging onto her composure by a fraying thread. Jesus Christ, Nicola has no idea what excuses Jamie made to him tonight, but whatever they were, they clearly didn't work.

Malcolm turns to her, obviously seething. “So? You wasted no time in losing your fucking mind, why should I wait to knock some sense into your fluffy head?”

Nicola takes a deep breath; not easy for her to do, with Malcolm looming over her, and glaring like he’s trying to set her head on fire with just the power of his mind. “Malcolm, I know you’re an utter lunatic, but for once, do you think you could speak rationally for five whole minutes?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking clue what--”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” Nicola snaps. “Don’t you fucking--stop calling me that.” Malcolm’s eyes narrow, and before he can pounce on that Nicola demands, “And what the fuck do you think you’re doing anyway? Surely even you take some time off on the weekends from your regular occupation as a modern-day Mephistopheles?”

In a voice that sounds like he’s been gargling with high-end vodka, it’s that hoarse, Malcolm demands, “What the fuck are you doing with Miller?”

Nicola stares. Then she says, half-laughing with mingled anger and incredulity, “Are you fucking serious? You barge into my house in the middle of the fucking night--”

“Just answer the fucking question,” Malcolm says over and that’s it, they’re shouting at each other in a full-fledged domestic, and the absurdity of it all would have Nicola laughing if she weren’t so angry at him, at his fucking arrogance and his--

“-- _insane_ belief that anything I do is your business now, fuck’s sake, Malcolm, you’re fucking unemployed--”

“--and maybe if you weren’t so fucking thick, I wouldn’t have to worry about your business then!” Malcolm roars right back. “Fuck’s sake, woman, _wake up._ Do you think you can go swanning about with Dan Miller and not have anyone notice? You’ve got a fucking bullseye on you the size of the London Eye, and still you’re running about like Warwick, looking to play the kingmaker? You think people are going to really let that fucking stand? And, and you’re risking it all for fucking _Dan Miller?_ For that jumped-up tin man of a politician--”

“You complete idiot,” Nicola shouts over him, “I’m not with Miller at all, I was trying to gather intelligence for Clare Ballentine!”

Malcolm stops, mid-rant, just as if someone’s pressed the pause button on the remote. “You’re not resigning.”

“No, Malcolm, Jesus Christ,” Nicola says, irritation thick in her voice. “Miller approached me, yes, but I’m not going to fucking do it. I’m not part of his stupid cabal, I’m not resigning in order to take Tom down, and you came down all this way to shout at me for nothing.”

Malcolm’s still staring at her. “You’re not with Miller.”

“No,” Nicola snaps. “For fuck’s sake, Malcolm, give me a little fucking credit, will you? I was never with Miller, I was getting the names of who else is in the cabal so that Jamie can blow it all up. The whole thing was a ruse, just a plot to get Dan to trust me enough so that he’d give up the names.”

It's rather gratifying, seeing Malcolm so thrown. “So why the fuck didn’t you tell me, then?”

Nicola shoots him a glare. “I’m not actually your puppet, Malcolm, no matter what you seem to think. It didn’t involve you, and frankly at the time, the less people who knew the truth, the better. Besides, it should’ve have been obvious to you anyway.”

“Obvious, she says,” Malcolm replies with a scoff. “Like anyone could understand what’s been going on with you lately.”

“Yes, obvious,” Nicola says, refusing to back down. “For fuck’s sake, Malcolm, I’m not your puppet, but that doesn’t mean I’m not on your side.”

Malcolm’s eyes go very sharp at this, and Nicola presses her lips together, wishing she could reword that last part.

“My side,” Malcolm says, and Nicola gets the sudden sense that he’s choosing everything--his words, his stance, even the way he looks up at her from under his eyebrows--that he’s choosing all of it very, very carefully. “And just how do I know that, Nicola?”

Nicola gapes at him, and then whatever sanity she’s managed to hang on to during this very long, bizarre day finally makes a break for the hills. “How do you _not_ know that?” she demands, gesturing for emphasis, so she can better ram the point through his stupid, thick head. “I mean, Jesus, look at--I blew up that Fourth Sector roll-out for you, I covered for you as best I could with the inquiry, and after all that, you still think I’d turn around and, and for _Miller?_ For Dan Miller, I mean, really, Malcolm, you--” Nicola catches herself at last, but it’s too late. Too late, and she’s said too much.

Face hot, Nicola somehow manages to stand her ground and keep looking back at Malcolm, and because she is looking at Malcolm, she sees the exact moment where Malcolm's gaze drops, with devastating precision, to where her robe has slipped a little to show her throat, part of her collarbone. Nicola wants to yank it back into place, doesn't at first, and then gives in to the inevitable and tugs at it.

Not that it helps. Malcolm is still looking at her, and if Steve's leers left Nicola furious and if Dan Miller’s stares left her discomfited, then Malcolm's gaze leaves Nicola feeling...scorched.

"So if that's all, then can I go to bed now?" Nicola asks, trying for nonchalant and missing it by a mile.

By more than a mile, judging from the way Malcolm is looking at her now. And then Malcolm opens his mouth, and blows Nicola’s remaining composure out of the water.

“Do you honestly think,” he asks, almost casual, “--that I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?"

Nicola is absolutely still. She is not moving, she is not breathing. And yet, Malcolm is looking at her like he wants an actual response to the grenade he’s just thrown down. Right. Right, so she has to think, and she has to come up with a response. Anything to say. Anything to save the tattered remains of her dignity.

Nicola gulps air back into her lungs, and goes for broke, finally uttering the mental justifications that kept her going all this time. “I figured that if you'd ever noticed it, you just didn’t care. It wasn’t as if it was...actually relevant, to anything. I thought it was best left ignored.”

“Relevant,” Malcolm repeats, with a soft chuckle. “No. No, it was not fucking relevant. It was totally and completely irrelevant to anything about your job or my far more important job.” Malcolm steps forward now, walking right up into her personal space. “It wasn’t relevant. It _was_ distracting as all fuck.”

Nicola takes a breath, and then another. “Distracting,” she repeats, voice faint. Dear God, this is actually happening. Here in her living room, with her in her thin robe and Malcolm here, staring at her like that.

"You've been looking at me," Malcolm says, heavily, voice thick with frustration. "I've seen you, looking at me for months now, I've fucking seen it and you just wouldn't _do_ anything, even when you were staring with those big green eyes of yours, you wouldn't..."

Nicola licks at her dry lips, and watches Malcolm track the motion. "I didn't think you'd want me to."

“Yeah, well,” Malcolm says, his eyes no longer on her face, but resting lower now, fixed on her throat.

He moves slowly enough for her to see it coming, but it still comes as a shock when his hand reaches up and brushes, lightly, against the hollow of her throat, his thumb caressing her collarbone.

Nicola holds herself very, very still, as she tries to remember how to breathe. “Tell me to stop,” Malcolm says, and it could almost be a dare, except for his voice is like gravel, and except for the way he’s looking at her right now. “Come on, you’re never quiet--so just tell me to stop, then.”

Nicola lifts her chin, finding her voice at last. “There’s a bit of a problem there. I don’t actually want you to stop, you see.”

He comes in closer then, and Nicola’s breathing, already uneven, picks up, and the air catches in her throat as his hands finally rest on her hips.

"Do you want this?" Malcolm's voice is a harsh rasp, low and still somehow loud enough to ring in Nicola's ears. "Nicola, do you want this?"

The soft "yes" that slips out is perhaps the easiest thing she's said all night.

When he kisses her, Nicola’s almost expecting it to sting, somehow, but it’s soft, almost tentative, if you could call anything about Malcolm Tucker tentative. She presses forward a little, just to see, and that gets a reaction, one of his hands sliding up into her hair as Malcolm starts to kiss her in earnest, his hands tightening around her waist, pulling her in closer to him.

Slowly, Nicola lets her hands rest on him, on his chest, one hand clutching the fabric of his coat sleeve. If she lets herself think about the madness of this at all, it’ll be all she can think about, so she doesn’t think about it--she just keeps on doing it, kissing Malcolm Tucker in her living room, because she wants to. Because she wants him.

And then one of Malcolm’s hands moves to the front of her robe, tugging very lightly on the sash. Nicola gasps into his mouth a little, and Malcolm pulls back to look at her.

“All right, then?” he asks.

Nicola unsteadily laughs, her own hands clumsy as she tries to shove Malcolm’s coat off his shoulders. “Assume you’ve got the green light unless I say otherwise, okay?”

“Yeah, trust you to always have something to say,” Malcolm says, and the easy amusement in his voice has Nicola smiling, even as she leans back up to kiss him again. And then he’s undoing the sash and his hands are on her bare skin, and oh. Oh Jesus, she should have done this _ages_ ago.

“Right,” Malcolm mutters a few moments later, between fevered kisses, “we need a fucking bed, or some kind of flat surface, Christ--”

“Here, then,” Nicola says, her mouth buzzing, body thrumming with sparks. And so she leads him, hands fisted in the front of his coat, moving until she feels her back hit the wall. “Will this do?” she asks, breathless and smiling, and Malcolm looks at her for a moment before leaning and kissing her, hard.

The amazing part is how easy it all is--so easy for her not to think, not to panic, not when Malcolm’s mouth is on her and his hands are on her body, restless, always pushing for more, for a reaction, whether it’s his fingernails carefully pressing against the nipple of her breast to see how sensitive she is--very--or when his fingers finally, finally rub against her aching clit.

“Fuck,” Nicola mutters, gasping a little.

“Yeah?” Malcolm asks, pressing in a little bit more, like the best and worst kind of tease.

“ _Yes_ , Jesus, will you fucking get on with it and--” Nicola cuts herself off, gasping, as Malcolm takes her at her word and finally starts to fuck her with those long, gorgeous fingers, his thumb on her clit as his fingers move inside of her.

“There we are, there you go,” Malcolm encourages, and God, of all the things about tonight, the fact that Malcolm talks during sex is the least surprising thing of all. “Christ, just like that, now spread your legs a bit more for me, darling--”

Sweet holy Christ. Flushing all over--and he can see it too with her robe undone--Nicola does it, pressing her thigh between Malcolm’s legs because she’ll be damned if she’s the only one coming apart right now. “Like that, then?” she asks, voice low.

Malcolm’s answering grin is sharp enough to cut glass on. “Yeah, that’ll do me. But first--” he pauses to kiss her, sucking on her lower lip, “--first we’ll deal with you then.”

Put like that, Nicola has no objections there. And so she goes with it, with all of it, moving against Malcolm’s hands as she tries and fails to stifle her moans against his mouth. Finally, Nicola has to pull away, turning her face into Malcolm’s shoulder and moaning wordlessly while Malcolm’s voice is pouring through her ears, filthy and seductive, making promises she has every intention of collecting on, as soon as she can think, as soon as she can focus on anything, anything except what he’s doing to her right in this moment.

When she finally comes, clenching around Malcolm’s fingers, Nicola’s eyes are squeezed shut, and her mind is a white blank, wiped totally clear. She comes back to herself after a moment or two, Malcolm’s forehead pressed against hers, and Nicola leans in for a languid kiss, still caught in that fog where her brain hasn’t caught up to her body yet.

It all comes back to her though, that awareness of herself, of Malcolm--of his too-fast breathing, the roughness of his clothes against her bare skin, the way his cock is pressing against her leg. All of it, unmistakable, impossible to deny.

And Nicola is a complete wreck right now, disheveled, exposed--and without a trace of self-consciousness to be found.

Huh. Well, what do you know then.

Nicola lifts her head, and looks at Malcolm. “So what now?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Well, I was thinking I’d take you upstairs to whatever passes for an actual bed in this place, get you to make those noises again, if perhaps you don’t object.”

Nicola smiles a little. “Okay. And then?”

Malcolm gives a little shrug, looking at her through his eyelashes. “Then we take it from there.”

It’s not any kind of promise, any kind of real guarantee. There are real, legitimate things to be worked out here, things they won’t be able to avoid.

After a moment, Nicola smiles at him. “I can work with that.” She folds her robe around herself, but doesn’t bother belting it. “So let’s get you to that bed, then. I haven’t nearly finished with you tonight.”

And wonder of wonders, Malcolm gives her a little smile at that. “Good to know.”

They don’t do anything like hold hands on their way up the stairs, but when Nicola takes the lead to the bedroom, it’s with her knowing that Malcolm is behind her, with every step.

*

Going into Monday morning, Nicola still has no idea of what Malcolm’s real plans are. She knows he has them, of course--he’d admitted as much over the weekend--but he’d stayed steadfastly mum on what they were.

Nicola had been fine with it. Plausible deniability is always handy, after all, and she’d had much pleasanter things to occupy her time with.

There is a bruise on her shoulder, right below her collarbone. No one can see it, not with the outfit she’s wearing, but Nicola knows it’s there, and will press her fingers to it when no one’s looking, the ache a reminder of what she’s done, and who she’s done it with.

More to the point, there is a hotel reservation--not in her name or in Malcolm’s, because neither one of them are suicidally stupid--but there is a hotel reservation waiting for them both, in a week’s time.

If she’s honest, Nicola is still not sure of where this will go, or what she’ll do when she gets there. But she’s confident she can figure it out along the way, which isn’t so bad a place to start at.

And then, at around two-thirty in the afternoon, Malcolm goes and sets off an atomic bomb through the government, and through every plan Nicola has.

“The Prime Minister has called the election!” Terri’s saying over the general din, every computer and television turned to the BBC. As the chaos swirls around her, Nicola stares before saying, loudly, “Oh, that fucking bastard.”

Glenn, in the middle of what looks to be two phone calls, stops to stare at her. “Sorry?"

Nicola waves him off. “Not Tom, I mean Malcolm.” Accepting this as basic fact, which it is, Glenn loses interest and goes back to his phone, while Nicola calls out across the room, “Jamie! Did Malcolm tell you about this?”

“Of fucking course not!” Jamie shouts in reply, before jumping right back into the chaos, where he’ll always be happiest.

Right then. Before she sets herself to work, Nicola sends a text to Malcolm that she doesn’t expect to be answered any time soon. _Trust you to take a truckload of dynamite to all our plans._

Malcolm’s reply comes an hour or two later. _All in an afternoon’s work. So, can you fucking handle it then?_

Already in the midst of campaign plans, Nicola tilts her head as she looks at her phone, and then sends a rapid-fire response, her fingers flying over the tiny keyboard.

_Don’t be fucking stupid. Of course I can._

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song "Go" by Santigold. Major, _huge_ thanks to my beta jamjarring for the suggestions and Britpicking, and to everyone else who has either looked this over or listened with great patience as I whined and moaned about this insanely long story.  <3


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